


A Night to Remember

by Ceile



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Because it's a Sochi fic., Drunk dance battle., M/M, Should I even bother to tag?, Sochi banquet, sort of canon-compliant, why not?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-05-27 12:55:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 68,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15025049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ceile/pseuds/Ceile
Summary: Victor was not in the best frame of mind after winning gold at the Sochi Grand Prix Final, and the Banquet was sure to be another forgettable occasion.Until Yuuri Katsuki made it a night to remember.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for stopping by this story. I have a lot of love for these characters, so I hope you will be entertained by giving my little fics a glance or two. This particular story is mostly complete, so updates *should* be reasonably timed. Please enjoy!  
> ~Ceile

 

Viktor Nikiforov was not a stupid man.  He  _ wasn’t _ .

 

Of course, he was a man who sometimes did absolutely stupid things, and who hasn’t?  At his core, he knew he wasn’t a rocket scientist, but he wasn’t what one would call dumb either.  He’d travelled the world, spoke three languages with fluency, he was at the top of his game; people had called him a genius on the ice for years already, so he knew that he was, and he spent the last twenty years of his life living up to being that untouchable genius.  The top place on the podium. The top figure skater in Russia, and, arguably, in the world. The man with the never ending inspiration to surprise the denizens of that world in every season.

 

Genius on the Ice.

 

Hearing it, reading it,  _ living _ it had gotten so fucking  _ old _ .

 

He didn’t think he was bitter.  Yet. But maybe he was close. 

 

Or maybe he was just running out of surprises, maybe the well had finally begun to run dry.

 

Maybe that nagging plantar fasciitis that no one but Yakov and the team doctors knew about would finally get him next year, or maybe the knee of his landing leg would finally refuse to keep accepting the torture it was given day in and day out and just shatter with a resounding pop to tell him to fuck off.

 

He knew he was on borrowed time in the sport.  He knew it.

 

Maybe that’s why he chose to skate to “Stay Close to Me and Never Leave”.  

 

At first, the song was about the skating; it always was.  The skating. The inspiration. The hair shorn off when he was twenty-four was a huge surprise; gone were the androgynous expressions of an adolescent not fully understanding life.  Not understanding love.

 

Or, at least, not totally understanding why some types of love were seen as wrong.  As far as he could tell, everything on the ice was love. Everything; it was his core belief.  If any type of love he felt was considered to be the “wrong” type, he would always have the ice.  He would always love the ice. Of course, it would have been nice to have another human being to stay close to him and never leave, but he wasn’t a dreamy-eyed 17 year-old anymore either.  It wasn’t happening.

 

At twenty-seven, he accepted the state of his existence and resolved only to love the ice; there was no longer a need to feel guilty about being a man who loved it more than life.  As he entered young adulthood, Viktor loved the ice more than he would ever love people who only saw him as a skater, the pride of Russia, or as a trophy in and of himself. Though occasional, the quick, nearly-anonymous dalliances which would earn Yakov’s wrath, and that which were always paired not-so-nicely with empty bottles of vodka, or amaretto, or wine, or whatever cheap booze was available in the backseat of the car owned by whatever beauty wanted to fuck him while pulling that long hair before he made the choice to cut it off, would never have the same depth as his love for the ice.    

 

And it was mostly ok. 

 

He didn’t have time for love with a person, back when he was twenty-four, already in the midst of a streak of gold medals.  He didn’t have the patience; he didn’t honestly care as long as he was aesthetically pleased and there was enough alcohol involved.  But when those aesthetically pleasing partners would yank and pull at his hair when they got down to business, which, at first, made him feel as though he had total seductive power, the power to leave plenty of them with nothing in the end except wanting more and him refusing to give it;  even  _ that _ game started to become predictable.  

 

Did any of them actually see him as a man?  

 

So he decided to cut it all off, as if to raise the middle finger toward all of them and say:  “It’s too late for you to get what you want, assholes. I’m done playing that game.” He had made the decision that he would no longer use his appearance to downplay the fact that he was actually a man who desired other men.  

 

He was done with that phase of his life where he won gold and drank himself into questionable decision-making, relying on his beauty to mask his indifference to whatever kindred beauty would take him to bed.  No matter how fluidly he skated between God’s two genders on the ice, the reality of his emotionally detached personal life with those meaningless occasional flings would never go away. 

 

The ice would forgive him for cutting his hair.  He wondered if he would get fewer offers for a little drunken fun without it, but he found that he didn’t much care either way.    He supposed Yakov was probably right to yell at him every single damn time he had to collect him from a club or a hotel after an event.  Yakov didn’t care if he was a drunk slobbering mess of tears, liquor, spit, and whatever else when he’d let him have it either. 

 

Those men that Yakov screamed about didn’t know _ him _ . They only knew the  _ image _ .

 

And, at twenty-four, he took the first step to shattering that image: the hair had to  _ go _ .

 

And, of course, cutting his hair would surprise the living fuck out of absolutely  _ everyone _ .  It might even trend on some sports networks around the world that notoriously relegated stories on figure skating as human interest instead of sports.  

 

When the hair was gone, the stylist cried.

 

She  _ wept _ .

 

She sobbed and made him take one long lock with him to keep; she tied the cluster of silver strands into a delicate ponytail with a hair-tie and a blue satin ribbon and brushed it reverently before handing it to him.  A reminder, she said. It would be a memento of his transformation, she said.

 

He remembered flashing her a million dollar smile and reaching for his wallet to pay her before unceremoniously stuffing the lock of hair into his coat pocket. 

 

She wouldn’t take his money.

 

So he left,  got into his car and he sat there.  And sat there. 

 

It should have felt liberating, right?  Maybe the surprise was on  _ him _ because it just fucking  _ didn’t _ .  He still felt the same after all.

 

Oh well.

 

His neck was freezing.  That was surely surprising, a Russian man shivering in a heated car.

 

And before he knew it, a ping, and Chris was blowing up his phone.  Pingpingping. Then Georgi. Ping. Then Ivan. Pingping. Then Stephane.  Ping. His agent. Pingpingpngping. Yakov. Pingpingpingpingpingping. Even little Yuri Plisetsky from juniors armed with his brand new phone; he glanced at that one because he wasn’t expecting it.  Ah, yes. Yuri’s Insult of the Month was “douchebag”, as evidenced by its repetition in the text message he read before the screen popped with more alerts. Last month, it was fucktard. Were all twelve-year-olds like that?  Maybe Little Yuri was a special case and had some problems.

 

Viktor was pretty sure that he was a special case at that age too.   He was also pretty sure he was still a special case, if Yakov’s words had any merit, which they usually did. 

 

Pingpingping.

 

He answered none of them.  The world seemed to fucking know that he cut his hair not five minutes after he walked out of the salon.

 

No surprise there, he thought.

 

He really needed a cashmere scarf.  Just how many nerve endings resided at the nape of one’s neck?

 

Pingpingping.

 

He Googled it and skimmed the first results for the quick anatomy lesson.  He scrolled.

 

Oh.

 

Thanks, Glamour Magazine.com, for reminding him that it was also an erogenous zone.

 

Pingpingpingping-OFF.  Fuck it.

 

He actually decided he needed a drink instead of the scarf.  It was always 5 o’clock somewhere.

 

Fast-forward a few more seasons, and here he was with another gold medal at another GPF, and losing inspiration faster than water through the hands.  He was a man who understood who he was, the Living Legend, the Flagship of the Motherland when it came to men’s figure skating in Russia, the media darling who had a charming and perfectly practiced fake-smile and an autograph for any fan who asked.

 

He was loved.   _ Adored _ .  Worshipped as a god by some, perhaps.  Wasn’t there something people should be living by that began with “Thou shalt not,” that should keep them from doing that?  

 

And none of it fucking mattered, even after the win at the Sochi Grand Prix Final.

 

“What are your plans for next season?”

 

It was a perfectly reasonable request for a reporter to ask a gold medalist such as himself.  At every fucking competition. Perfectly reasonable.

 

Perfectly  _ predictable _ .

 

Perfect.

 

_ Perfect _ .

 

Well.  

 

_ Fuck _ perfect.

 

Maybe he should just tell them he had no fucking clue and if anyone else asks, he’ll retire right the fuck now.

 

“If I tell you, I’ll have to think of something else!”  he said instead with a wink and a flirty smile toward the reporter who looked as though she was about to faint right where she stood.  He knew some of his disinterest had been written all over his face when the question was asked, and he was running out of energy to care, but he still had enough to fake it.  He glanced over to Chris who had raised an eyebrow but smiled anyway. 

 

Yeah, Chris knew he was full of shit.  

 

He glanced over to the bronze medalist, the Canadian with the tramp stamp. He supposed he should probably try to use his actual name here and there, even in his own thoughts, but it was so much more fitting to just call him Tramp Stamp.  If he hooked his thumbs even one more time in his little “JJ Style” pose, Viktor was tempted to bite one of them off. He had remembered his parents well enough; they were very well decorated ice dancers in their day, but how in the hell did they manage to breed something like Tramp Stamp?  That had to be one of God’s mysteries, he supposed. 

 

When the press had finally finished asking their boring questions, he walked out with Chris, ignoring Yakov’s pleas to tell him to go find Yuri Plisetsky, tossing a casual “He’s around here somewhere,” over his shoulder as he headed to the locker room to gather his gear.

 

“Nice act,”  Chris commented when the two of them were alone in the locker room, checking around to ensure that none of their things would be accidentally forgotten.  

 

“Hmm?”  he asked noncommittally.  

 

He felt the hand on his ass as he leaned over the bench to pick up his bag.  “Nice view.”

 

Viktor stood up and turned around to face his friend.  It wasn’t Chris’s fault he was pissed, but it was a relief that he didn’t have to fake it in front of him.  He didn’t bother to flash a come-hither look either; they’d get to that later, he supposed. “Do you want to give me a gold medal for it?” he asked evenly, with no hint of amusement.

 

“Very funny, Victor.”

 

Okay.  He’ll play.  Fine. He supposed Chris was the closest thing he had to a lover at the moment, even if neither of them took it much further than some drunken make-out sessions that ended with them too drunk to do much more most of the time.

 

“Oops, I forgot,” he replied, returning the smile to his face.  If Chris wanted to play, he’d be a fool not to oblige. It wasn’t like there was anyone else, and it didn’t look like Chris particularly cared one way or the other.  At least it was always enjoyable, fun, and comfortably distant with Chris. “I already got a gold medal today. I have a strict rule about receiving more than one a day.  You’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”

 

“I’m always waiting for you.  You make me work so hard for everything,”  Chris returned casually, his voice dripping with promises for later as he raised a hand to gently push the silver bangs back and away from his face.  “I don’t mind that, though. It’s been a while, hasn’t it? We haven’t seen much of each other this season.”

 

“True.”

 

“Then maybe we need to get a little less drunk and a little more friendly this time, cheri.”

 

Victor considered.  It wasn’t a bad option at all; Chris was unabashed in his sexuality, and they both took their fake-boyfriend stunts very seriously.  However, sleeping with him would confirm the internet rumors that they were on-again, off-again lovers, and where was the surprise in that?  If he slept with Chris, would that lead to more expectations from him? Would Chris actually  _ expect _ him to become a lover?  Wasn’t he too important as a friend to tempt fate to try and be something else with him?   They’d been blurring the line between “friend” and “lover” for more than a few years now, and Victor wondered what would happen it one of them finally agreed to cross it.

 

Would he get bored?

 

“I don’t suppose the gold and silver medalists can skip the banquet tonight, can we?”  Chris asked interrupting his musings. 

 

Oh, that would be nice.  Impossible, but nice. He felt the fake-smile drop again.

 

“You know we can’t do that as well as I do.  Another year, another banquet, another schmoozefest.  At least the Champ is free.”

 

Shit.  He could tell by Chris’s expression that he’d said too much.  

 

“Victor.  Are you-”

 

“Done making you wait?” he interrupted cheerfully, shaking his head and plastering on a smile.  “I don’t know,  _ mon ami _ , maybe we can find that out in your room later!”

 

“Out with it, Nikiforov.”

 

The smile dropped again.  “Don’t.”

 

“Don’t what?”  came the reply, Chris’s voice lowered into a whisper because they were no longer alone.  What’s-his-name Bronze Medalist had entered the locker room by this time as well, but he seemed to be perfectly okay with ignoring them in favor of retrieving his own gear and chatting excitedly with his girlfriend on the phone.  How nice for him.

 

“We do better when there’s less talking,” Victor whispered.  Chris was studying him.

 

“Fine by me,”  the younger returned.  He leaned over to his ear so Jimmy-John would not overhear his next words.  “We can always keep our mouths busy some other way, no?”

 

Victor felt an involuntary shiver travel down his spine and he turned to whisper back, just barely nuzzling the shell of Chris’s ear with the tip of his nose.   “Such a naughty boy.” The next sensation he felt was Chris turning his head to whisper into his ear again, their lips nearly touching as he turned.

 

“Oh, I think you know it’s been awhile since i was a boy, cheri.  If I recall, you helped with that.”

 

Victor heard the locker room door open and close again as Jack-and-Jill slipped out as quickly as he had arrived, still declaring his own awesomeness to his girlfriend on the phone.  He returned his lips to the ear of the silver medalist. “Text me your room number then,” he breathed, close enough to hear the tiniest hitch in Chris’s breath. “Make sure there are shots,” he added with a little peck on the younger’s cheek.  

 

“Of course.  Is there anything else I should make sure to have handy?” he asked pointedly.

 

Well.  That was a little different; usually Chris didn’t outright ask how far he was willing to go.  “Where’s the surprise in me telling you that?” he said seriously. 

 

Chris pulled back a little to look into his eyes, searching for the answer.  By the little scowl that crossed his lips, he didn’t find what he was looking for.  “What’s wrong with you today?”

 

“Nothing shots won’t fix later.”

 

Chris was studying him again, but then his face relaxed into his default state of flirty ease.  “Okay, cheri, you know I don’t have expectations. It can be whatever you want.”

 

“Shots, Chris.  Lots of shots.”

 

“Ah, are we feeling nostalgic?  Maybe we should go get kicked out of a club later instead?”

 

“No.  We’re in Russia.”

 

That should stop that thought-line.  Chris immediately got it. “That’s fair.”  He pulled out his phone and, seconds later, Victor felt his own phone vibrate with the message which no doubt contained his room number at the hotel.  “I’ll leave the banquet first.”

 

“Okay.  I’ll see you then.  Right now I’ve got to find the baby I’m supposed to be babysitting.”

 

“Ah, the Junior Princess.”

 

“Yeah,” he replied simply.  “He’s good, Chris. He’ll beat us both someday.”

 

Chris snorted.  “If you say so.”

 

Victor picked up his bag and headed for the door, sensing that Chris was right behind him.  He stopped before opening it. “He’s going to be the new me.”

 

He exited the locker room; Chris didn’t follow.


	2. Chapter Two

Victor spied Yakov walking toward the main lobby of the rink and there was no sign of his little charge.  Shit. Where was that kid? He ducked down the next hallway, both to look for Yuri Plisetsky and to avoid passing Chris in the corridor.  God, he was still pissed. There was no way around it, and it wasn’t easy to hide anymore. Yakov had already taken the medal anyway, not trusting him to refrain from throwing it into Black Sea or something he was sure.  When he handed it over to the man, all he got was a grunt in response.

 

He won gold, but obviously Yakov thought something was missing from his free skate after all.  There wasn’t a lecture, but what he saw in his coach’s eyes was something far worse. He’d been with Yakov so long that there were many times when words weren’t even needed.  This time was no different: Yakov knew Victor was almost done, almost ready to leave the ice.

 

“Stay Close to Me and Never Leave”.  It was supposed to be about his love of skating, since there was nothing else anyway.

 

What a crock of  _ shit _ .  

 

A few more paces forward found Yuri Plisetsky sitting on the floor outside of one of the men’s restrooms with his knees pulled up to his chest and his hood over the top of them to cover his face.  For someone who just won gold again in the Junior GPF, he sure didn’t look happy either. Great. He seriously didn’t have the patience to deal with the boy’s teenage angst right now, and he hated how seeing Yuri in that type of repose reminded him of himself just a bit too much.

 

‘He’s going to be the new me.’

 

God, he hoped the kid would be better than that, and he knew without being told that Yakov wanted him to make sure of it.

 

“Yuri.  We have to go,” he said sternly, “Yakov is waiting out front.”

 

“Let him wait for half a second, Geezer.  Can you not be an asshole right now?”

 

Victor sighed and let go of the handle of his rolling gear bag.  “What’s your problem?”

 

“You.”

 

“Wow.  Really?  I would never have guessed,” he remarked sarcastically.  “Get up. I’m sure they are holding the shuttle for us.”

 

“I…,”  the teen began, “I need a second?!”  he shouted from underneath the hoodie.

 

Victor studied the junior champion; he was shaking.  His face was hidden, so Victor couldn’t be sure if it was because of anger or because of something else.  Shit; if anything happened to the kid while he was supposed to be watching over him, Yakov would probably strangle him with the laces of his skates.  “Yuri, are you okay…?”

 

“Shut the fuck up for one goddamn minute!” he yelled, flinging off the hoodie and giving him a nasty green-eyed glare and a twin middle finger salute.  Seriously, Victor did not have patience for this right now.

 

“Yuri-”

 

“A hundred points,”  Yuri interrupted quietly.  “Is that the standard?”

 

“What are you talking about?”

 

“That’s about what the point spread was between you and 6th place, you Idiot.”

 

Oh.  Was it?  He hadn’t bothered to check the final standings.

 

“Do the judges really like you that much?”  Yuri spat. “Because I sure  _ don’t _ .”

 

Typical. He put on a little smirk that he knew infuriated the younger Russian.    “Think you can do better?”

 

The teenager scowled.  “I’m going to  _ crush _ you next year, Old Man.  You and all your ancient geezer friends need to just get out of my way and retire.  I let Katsuki know already, and now I’m telling  _ you _ .”

 

What?  What the hell had this  _ child _ done?

 

“Katsuki?  You mean Yuuri from Japan?  You spoke to a  _ senior competitor  _ about  _ retiring _ ?!”

 

“Is there another Katsuki in the competition you Dumb Shit?!  Of course I mean  _ him _ ,” little Yuri snapped.    Before Viktor could interject and demand to know exactly what the Ice Tiger had said to the Japanese man, Yuri was speaking again.  “At least  _ he _ had the decency to just fuck up.  He  _ knows _ he’s done.  When are  _ you _ going to figure that out?”

 

What?  He didn’t know Yuuri Katsuki that well, only seeing him at a distance at a couple of competitions,  but it wasn’t as if he was totally unaware of him either. He seemed pretty shy, always staying well away from others or slipping out before most anyone really talked to him.  He remembered that Chris knew him a little bit better, Chris  _ always _ knew the attractive ones; maybe he could ask Chris later.  Yuuri Katsuki had beautiful moves in the field; in the few videos he’d been able to see here and there and in the warmups, the man moved like his body itself was playing the music.  He was gorgeous in his step sequences, even Victor had to ask someone once who he was when the skater was still in Juniors. He also had very good command of high-quality, highly-ranked spins. Victor didn’t pay close attention tonight because he also knew that the Japanese Yuuri had a reputation for flubbing jumps in major competitions.  Was this his first GPF? Victor wasn’t really sure. Was he really retiring? If he recalled correctly, the skater from Japan was a few years younger than him. He shouldn’t be done yet, right? If he was going to retire, and he was younger, what should that say to a skater of the very advanced age of twenty-seven…?

 

No.  Stop.  

 

Victor didn’t need to justify himself or his career to a fifteen year old kitten who was about to be fresh out of the Junior division, just as Katsuki should not take the words of a teenager seriously.  Hopefully he had brushed the Junior GPF gold medalist off without giving a second thought to the illustrious opinion of a small little boy who hadn’t yet laced up for his senior debut. 

 

However, retirement was a sensitive subject to any Senior skater; there was no way Yuri Plisetsky should be mouthing off to a foreign competitor he didn’t even  _ know _ .  Victor now understood for certain that he needed to get his shit together and start mentoring this little whelp properly, or Yakov might skip strangling him with his laces and just string him up from the rink’s rafters instead.

 

“I didn’t see his programs, so I-”

 

“Of course you didn’t see them,” the junior champion interrupted haughtily,  “God forbid you suffer through that cringefest before you skate your sappy shit.”

 

Did he really beat a Grand Prix finalist skater by about a hundred points?  That shouldn’t really happen, not even for him. He suddenly wanted to see every single program performed by all the final six.  “Let’s go, Yuri. Yakov’s waiting.” The boy didn’t move. Fine. Victor was no stranger to stubborn. He crouched down in front of the teenager and grabbed him by the face, the boy not expecting it and not reacting quickly enough to bat his hand and arm away.

 

“Let go of me!”

 

“And another thing,  _ Little _ Yuri,” he seethed, ignoring the kitten’s words and holding him more firmly instead, “you will never,  _ ever _ , speak to a competitor about the ending of their career again.  I should make you march right up to Yuuri Katsuki and beg him to forgive you.  If you are wearing that jacket, you are representing Russia.”

 

“Oh, that one’s right out of Yakov’s playbook”, Yuri spat.  “I know he’s told you that plenty of times, Geezer. You’re no  _ saint. _ ”

 

“At least I know enough to be courteous and friendly when the situation warrants.  I don’t care if you fake it, but you  _ will _ handle yourself with  _ class  _ with the other skaters when we are at an event.”

 

“Please.  I just got pissed at him for fucking up so royal!” the kitten protested.  “I expected more from him, so I fucking told him that the best way I knew how!”

 

Wait.  What was that about?  His hand remained in a vice-like grip upon the boy’s face as he stared him down.  “If you’re joining the Senior division, this is where the big boys play. Are you sure you want to antagonize your competition before you even skate one program?”

 

“Like I care.  He  _ sucks _ .  How the hell was he even here?”

 

Victor returned his expression to a smile, but it wasn’t meant to be friendly.  This kid seriously had no filter; when he was that age, he at least knew enough to plaster a smile on his face and make nice to everyone.  Little Yuri had a lot to learn if he ever wanted to please people.

 

Or maybe he really just didn’t give a shit.  

 

But Yakov expected Victor to mentor him, and he understood that the expectation was meant to cover more than just his skating technique.  He needed to rein this child in before he humiliated them all. Yuri was a fighter; Victor didn’t want to take that spirit from him, but he seriously needed to channel that anger.  Fine. Let him channel it to him 24/7 if it meant the kid didn’t interact with the other skaters like that again.

 

“Let me put this in the types of words that I think you will understand,” he continued cooly.  “You fucked up. If you want to be taken seriously by me, or by any of the other  _ men _ in the Senior division, get your shit together and maybe learn how to do a fucking step sequence, because your current steps aren’t even  _ half _ as good as Katsuki’s.”

 

Well.  That got his attention. The look he was giving him was one of semi-shock, although Victor wasn’t sure if it was in response to what he was saying or toward his use of profanity.  Either way, the Ice Tiger was listening. 

 

“Did you think I didn’t know that?”  Victor asked pointedly, not giving up the superior air.    “Every one of the final six had to win plenty to make it here, and you goddamn know it, and someone has to be first, and someone has to be last.  It’s fucking sports.”

 

He saw the teenager swallow, his scowl becoming less severe.  No snappy retort to this particular scolding was forthcoming, it appeared.  Victor let go of his face and stood, looking down at what he supposed was Yuri being somewhat repentant.  Somewhat. Now, to make it worse for him; if Little Yuri wanted him to be the asshole, he’d do it without fail.

 

“If Katsuki does retire and I find out that your words to him were even the tiniest factor in his decision, I will  _ personally _ make sure to beat you by 100 points in every fucking competition next year.  Is that  _ clear _ ?!”

 

“Y-yeah.”

 

Victor shook his head and exhaled deeply.  “Are we done here then?” he asked, switching to a gentle tone.  It wasn’t an “I’m sorry”, but, for Yuri Plisetsky, “yeah” was about its equivalent. 

 

He’d take it for now.   

 

What was done was done, and the milk was already spilled.  Children make mistakes, right? The Lord knew he had made a ton of them, and, if Yakov was to be believed, Victor was still mostly a child poured into the body of a man half the time anyway.  Scolding over; it was exhausting anyway. Just how on God’s green earth had Yakov dealt with his own antics at that age, Victor would probably never know. He knew he wasn’t a mouthy little punk like Yuri Plisetsky, but he had other quirks and behaviors that probably were the reason why Yakov always kept a bottle of vodka in the freezer at the rink, and a flask of whiskey in his desk drawer.  He supposed it was payback, this. All right, Yakov: Challenge Accepted. 

 

The teenager got up from the floor in a single fluid motion and put his hood back up and his hands in his pockets.  He muttered something intelligible, but the elder didn’t catch it, and he didn’t ask the boy to repeat it. It was probably another friendly nickname along the lines of “asshole” or “douchebag” anyway. 

 

“Maybe we should be discussing your program elements.  If you want to beat me next year, maybe you should polish it up a bit.  I can help you.”

 

“At your age, can you really afford to be helping me?” he snarked back.  

 

Oooh.  Wow, he recovers from getting chewed out pretty quickly; Victor couldn’t help but to allow a little chuckle to escape.  This was definitely Yakov’s payback for his own ability to do just that after a lecture. He is still feisty. Fine then.  He’ll play. He laughed at him outright and winked. “You are just asking for me to say it, aren’t you, Yuri?”

 

The scowl deepened once more.  “Say what, Geezer?” he grumbled.

 

“I won’t ever go easy on you, don’t you worry!”  Victor declared with his cheerful air. It was fun playing with this little brat.   He could only guess at the number of f-bombs which would fall upon him after what he was about to say next.  Without any warning, he put his arms around the small boy and squeezed with significant strength, and the limbs of the younger flailed helplessly as he tried to break free from the sidelong embrace.   “I love you Just. That. Much!”

 

“Oh dear  _ God, _ you are so fucking  _ embarrassing _ , you fucking fucktard!” Yuri shouted angrily as Victor released him and he one-hopped his way to regaining his balance on his fashion-crime leopard print sneakers.

 

Three.  That earned three f-bomb variants.  He’ll remember that.

 

“Let’s go now, Yuri,” he affirmed, and the younger reluctantly obeyed.  The pair walked onward, following the increasing noise which would lead them to the lobby where, no doubt, Yakov and the rest of his skaters who attended the event would be waiting for them.  Somehow, even though he still was not amused that Little Yuri may have had words with Yuuri Katsuki, Victor felt a bit better. Maybe that’s what he needed to do to get his inspiration back; maybe he should take mentoring the younger Russian more seriously after all.  The kid was extremely talented. Maybe he could find his own inspiration through nurturing Yuri to maturity on the ice. 

 

Why the hell not?  

 

The snap decision made, known only to himself, Victor mentally ran through Yuri Plisetsky’s gold medal free skate, and he found his first opportunity.  It echoed their earlier conversation, so it should be a good place to start. “You know, Yuri, your step sequence in the free was kind of sloppy. You need to-”

 

“I won anyway, so what does it matter?  Such a nag,” the teen groaned. Okay. Maybe it wasn’t such a great idea to put on his new “#1 Mentor” hat on the same night the kid walked away with a gold medal without so much as breaking a sweat.  That would definitely change for him next season in the senior division, and he decided he would help Yuri get ready for it.

 

As they waited with Yakov, Victor felt eyes on him; it was a sense developed through years of placating fans and the press, an instinct to know when he was being keenly observed from afar.  Time to slap the smile on again.

 

He glanced over his shoulder and the smile didn’t quite make it to his lips:  Yuuri Katsuki was standing there, clad in his country’s team tracksuit, a study in black and blue as a member of the Japanese press was asking him some rapid fire questions that he was doing his best to ignore.  The sixth place finisher. Did Victor really beat him by a hundred points?

 

He met his gaze, and thankfully, the reflexive charm finally kicked in.  He flashed the friendly smile toward his fellow competitor. “Commemorative photo?  Sure thing,” he said with a flick of his wrist to beckon the Japanese skater toward him for a cute selfie that would probably make Chris a little jealous later on.

 

But that didn’t happen.

 

Yuuri Katsuki froze in place as though Victor had slapped him instead of offering to take a picture with him.  He didn’t know what to do; this was not the usual. At. All. Even among elite skaters, he knew many of them were some of  his most ardent fans. So why wasn’t Yuuri moving with a smile and a congratulatory plattitute like all the others? He just stood there.

 

The Japanese man’s demeanor was the exact opposite of what he expected.

 

It  _ surprised _ him, and not in a good way either.

 

And then, to Victor’s further disbelief, Katsuki turned on his heel and walked toward the exit, saying nothing, his coach and the press man calling after him.  The look on his face had been one of utter devastation.

 

One hundred fucking points.  God, why did he have to pick this moment to be an insensitive jerk?  And, how did he let the fan-darling facade make him forget what he just learned moments prior, that the Little Yuri had been unkind to the sixth place finisher?  How awful. How mean. How...un-public-Victor like! 

 

How utterly stripped bare did it make him feel, like the void that had been slowly growing within his heart suddenly expanded exponentially, threatening to swallow him up into the black hole of the sixth place finisher’s obvious despair.

 

All Victor could do was stare after him, wondering what he should do, or what he should try to do to rectify both the Ice Tiger’s behavior as well as his own apparent faux pas.  Maybe an opportunity would present itself at the banquet for him to apologize for whatever Little Yuri had said to him, for, as Plisetsky’s mentor, that was probably part of the job.  He resolved that he would do it. He had to, because he never wanted anyone to look at him, to look  _ through _ him, like that ever again.

 

“Vitya,”  Yakov called,  “we’re leaving.”

 

“Okay.”  He returned his attention to their group and followed them out to their waiting shuttle.  They climbed aboard and Victor picked a seat right behind his coach, with Yuri Plisetsky climbing into the seat next to him.  For all that he professed to hate his guts, the kid sure liked to be close to him anyway. But Victor had other things on his mind.  “Who has the footage?” he asked to the group in general after they were all settled in their seats.

 

Yakov turned to look at him with an eyebrow raised in question, but he said nothing and nodded to one of the assistant coaches.  Within seconds, a tablet was produced and he pulled his headphones out. He turned on the device, skipped through the programs of the ladies, pairs, and ice dancers, and started to watch the men’s short program.

 

When it got to Yuuri Katsuki’s program, the music didn’t even have to start for Victor to know that something was really very wrong.


	3. Chapter Three

The Japanese skater on the screen of the tablet  looked to be a million miles away, and his expression didn’t change throughout the disastrous program.  His steps and spins were truly beautiful, as was the skater himself, but there was a nervousness about the performance that Victor could tell was definitely not part of the program.  Oh, and what was up with that costume? It didn’t suit him at all. Victor would have picked something with a much deeper hue to contrast with his fair skin and which would compliment his dark hair, and those frilly cuffs needed to be fucking burned.

 

But, Yuri Plisetsky had been right about one thing:  it was a cringefest, the free was no different. He was about halfway into watching it when the video abruptly stopped.  He pulled one earbud from his ear and turned to the assistant. “Where’s the rest of Katsuki’s free skate?”

 

“Oh, uh, well he wasn’t a threat to the podium, so I stopped recording,”  replied the man, not understanding why the gold medalist wanted to see the performance of a skater who had an off-night for the ages.  

 

He looked to the seat next to him and realized Yuri Plisetsky had been watching the videos silently along with him.  “I told you,” he said quietly, “he fucked up royal.”

 

“Language, Yuri,”  Yakov scolded, even though there wasn’t much bite to what the teenager said, and even though he was looking right at Victor when he said it.  “Vitya, I expect you to keep an eye on Yuri tonight. I won’t be attending the entire banquet.”

 

“Understood,”  Victor replied half-heartedly, feeling unsettled after watching the videos.  He’d have to wait until he got to the hotel to see if he could find and watch a video of the remainder of Yuuri Katsuki’s free skate.  He also hoped that little Yuri would want to go to bed early like a good little boy so he could hurry up and take care of business with Chris.

 

Chris.  

 

Chris!  Of course!

 

He shoved the tablet into Yuri Plisetsky’s lap, earning an irritated “Hey!”  from the boy and he pulled out his phone. He opened his text messages and, ah yes, the room number had been sent earlier after all.  He started to type.

 

“Tell me everything you know about Yuuri Katsuki.”  Send.

 

A full minute passed before those three little dots appeared to signify that Chris was making a reply.

 

Ping.  “Killer thighs.  Nice ass. Pretty gorgeous up close.  I’d hit that.”

 

Victor rolled his eyes and sighed.  “I meant besides the obvious. What is he like as a person?”  Send.

 

Again, a few long minutes elapsed before the three little dots appeared to show that Chris was responding; enough time passed so that they had already pulled up to the hotel and were about to disembark.  The dots stopped, and his phone rang instead. “Hello?”

 

“What’s this about all of a sudden?”  Chris asked without greeting.

 

“Nothing, I just thought you knew him and could tell me what he’s like.”

 

“Why?”

 

Why indeed.  Why? Did he have to have a reason?  “I was watching the footage of the programs.”  That should be good enough.

 

“Oh.  You weren’t watching  _ my _ program footage?  How cruel,” Chris commented with his voice dipping  into his signature sultry lower octave. 

 

“I’m being serious right now, Chris, just tell me what you know about him,”  he replied impatiently as he crossed the lobby and walked toward the elevator where Yuri Plisetsky was already standing in front of the panel with an exasperated look as he waited for him before pressing the button for their floor.  

 

“You?  Serious?  I thought you were only serious about skating.”

 

“Chris.”

 

“All right, all right.  Well,” a pause, “well….he’s not unfriendly, but he’s sort of…”

 

Yuri pressed the button and the doors parted for the two of them, and for another hotel guest who Victor could tell was trying desperately to refrain from asking for an autograph while he was on the phone.  He just flashed the woman a smile and that seemed to satisfy her immensely. Good. “Sort of what?”

 

“He’s...honestly, Victor, I don’t know him very well.”

 

“I don’t care, surely you must know something that would tell me why he looked like he was about to fall apart out there when he took the ice.”

 

“Actually, he did fall apart.  Where are you?”

 

“I’m about to arrive at my room with the kitten.”

 

“Don’t call me that, Asshole!”  came the retort from the person struggling with the card key.

 

“Are you sharing a room with the Princess?”  Chris quipped in his ear, obviously having heard Yuri’s comment.

 

“Yes.”

 

“That won’t ruin our plans later, will it?”

 

“No…”  he nodded his head to the teenager who finally succeeded with the key card and got the hint that he should take his shower and get dressed first so Victor could continue his call without little kitten ears flapping away to overhear.   Amazingly, subtlety also worked with him. Sometimes. Victor would remember that.

 

“Good,” Chris replied.    “So, about Yuuri Katsuki, well, he’s shy I guess.  Gets flustered easily. And, I suppose he’s a touch oblivious.”

 

“Oblivious?”

 

An audible groan came through the handset.  “Like i said in my text: killer thighs, nice ass, and I’d hit that?  I’ve tried and he is either the meanest little darling ever to just flat out ignore my attempts to flirt with him, or he’s totally oblivious.  I prefer to believe the latter since, as you well know, I have a  _ great  _ track record of success with flirting.”

 

“Or maybe he’s just not that into you?”  Victor couldn’t help but to quip back. It was unusual indeed for someone not to get caught up in Chris’s expert...handling.  

 

Chris snorted.  “Yeah, I’m pretty sure he’s not.  From what I hear, he’s only got eyes for one person on this planet, I’m afraid, and it isn’t me.”

 

“Oh?  Who? Someone back in his home country?  A girlfriend? A wife? A boyfriend?”

 

Chris snorted again.  “Let’s suffice it to say, it’s not me and leave it at that, okay?  My pride is wounded enough.”

 

“You’re seriously no help.”

 

“Oh, cheri, so stubborn are you!  Not to worry, I have full intentions of helping you out a lot after the banquet.”

 

“Criiii~is!”  Victor whined.  Whining usually worked with him.  “Tell me more!”

 

“No.”

 

What?  Usually Chris would play along with him better than this.  This wasn’t fun at all! When was the last time Chris had told him “no” about  _ anything _ ?  He could hear Chris make an irritated clicking sound with his tongue on the line.  “Are you...pissed or something?” he asked carefully.

 

“Not really.”

 

“Okay…?”

 

“Just talk to him yourself tonight at the banquet.  You’ll figure out he’s exactly what I said: hot, shy, and oblivious.  I gotta go; Josef is calling me on the other line.”

 

With that, Chris ended the call and Victor was definitely not satisfied.  Who else knew Yuuri Katsuki? Maybe the girls might be a better option. Who should he contact next?  Mila? Sara Crispino? 

 

Whoa.  Wait. Hold on.  What the hell was the matter with him?  It wasn’t his job to find the answer as to why the Japanese skater bombed in the Final.  It wasn’t his business to question the why of it; it had nothing to do with him at all. Victor searched his memory and could only come up with a couple of times when he tossed a casual “Hi” in the younger skater’s direction, only to receive a little bow in response before he managed to skitter away almost before Victor realized he was gone.

 

Oh.  Oh.  __

 

_ Oh _ .

 

He must have been one of  _ those _ types of competitors, the ones who would purposefully ignore him as much as they could without exactly being seen as impolite.  He must be one of those skaters who envisioned Victor Nikiforov with a target on his back: the one to beat. He’d met skaters like that from time to time; all skaters had egos.  They wouldn’t be in the sport at this level if they didn’t have the desire to perform, the desire for the exhilarating rush of a perfectly landed quad, or the satisfaction of completing a high-ranked spin with no travelling.  One has to have at least a touch of attention whore in him to do it at all; Victor truly believed that, and he knew he had a lot more than a touch of that himself. Half of it was the fault of his fans, always expecting him to surprise them every time he took the ice, and eating up his off-ice antics like they were the last edible food on the planet.  He was used to getting attention, and he had perfected playing up to it, giving them exactly what they wanted season after season.

 

So maybe Yuuri Katsuki was just a skater who didn’t buy into his hype.  Fine. That was fair; not everyone did. Why should he care if the Japanese skater only focused on himself?  That was also fair. Not everyone was a social butterfly by nature, and not everyone could be trained to be one.  Victor always thought the fact that he had both proved to be the best winning combination, and he used it to the max.  Yakov loved to complain that he had no shame, well, so be it. He had enough medals to do whatever the fuck he wanted, and everyone knew it.

 

But, this season had been different.  He was so tired. So very tired; maybe his age was really starting to catch up with him after all.  Even if he could do whatever he wanted, there were days when he’d wake up for his morning run and he’d lie there staring at the ceiling while his doting poodle Makkachin tried to coax him out of bed.  Those were the times he realized that there wasn’t anything he particularly wanted to do anymore.

 

There was so little inspiration left in anything.  Even the promise of a pleasantly fun evening in the company of Chris later wasn’t filling his heart with fire either when it usually would, at least temporarily.

 

He heard the water turn off in the bathroom as Yuri finished his shower.  A few more sounds told the story of the teenager getting himself ready for the banquet, the hair dryer providing white noise into the otherwise quiet room.

 

And his thoughts returned to the skater from Japan.  Again.

 

Why?

 

He turned his phone over in his hands and could no longer dismiss his curiosity.  So what if the guy was probably a selfish skater who only saw him as an obstacle to the podium?  So what if he found his heart ache with a definite pang when he viewed the skater looking so desperately miserable at the beginning of his free skate?  So what if it wasn’t supposed to have anything to do with him?

 

Victor did a little searching with his personal assistant Google, and found a fan-recorded video of the evening’s Men’s Free Skate.  He made a mental apology for skipping Chris’s program again, and located the part in the video where Katsuki took the ice.

 

He went to the boards to talk to his coach before his name was called, but it looked as though he wanted to be anywhere else on the planet but at the rink.  Clearly, he wasn’t listening to his coach’s advice; Victor could tell that much even though whoever was his coach was out of frame of the shot, the fan-videographer focusing as best they could on the skater.  He was making slight arcs in front of the boards, like nervous pacing on ice, and he was alternating between wringing his hands and shaking them out. Dear Lord; maybe Yuri Plisetsky was right in a way: how in the hell could this bundle of nerves win enough to even get to the final?

 

The door to the bathroom opened with a cloud of steam that followed a teenager clad in a royal blue suit.  No words were spoken as the junior gold medalist flopped indelicately on the other bed in the room and reached for the tv remote.  So much for remaining wrinkle free.

 

Ping.  A photo from Chris showing a nice assortment of booze on the cheap hotel desk with the caption:  “At least there’s no shortage of Vodka here in your Motherland.” He had gotten the good stuff too.  

 

“Don’t start without me.”  Send.

 

Ping.  “Make sure the Princess gets tucked in early and I won’t.”

 

He exhaled and walked over to the garment bag which held his freshly pressed suit.  He started to shed his clothing on the way to the bathroom and he closed the door to the humid expanse.  He turned on the shower and pulled his product out of his travel kit, frowning toward the smudges on the mirror made from where Yuri wiped it with his hand to be able to see himself through the steamed-up glass.  As the new steam began to gather upon it, what remained looked like a kindergartner’s finger painting, full of inpatient strokes with no care for aesthetic. The boy could have at least wiped it off with a towel.

 

Victor made his shower brief by his standards, the ache of his tired muscles wanting more than he had the time or remaining hot water in the hotel’s sub par water heating system to give to them, and he was toweling himself dry when the Tiger began knocking impatiently at the bathroom door.

 

“Can you possibly take  _ any _ longer, Geezer?”

 

“I’ll be out in a minute,” he groaned.  Okay. So maybe a 45 minute shower wasn’t what everyone considered to be brief.   His muscles begged to differ and he didn’t even have time for a proper foot pack. It pissed him off because he knew he’d have to concede to the pain in his left foot and wear the stupid orthopaedic insert in his shoe so he could stand around and schmooze without having to worry about accidentally wincing.

 

“No amount of fucking girly hair shit will ever take away your Old Man smell!”  the Tiger growled back. “Hurry the fuck up before all the good food is gone already!”

 

Further complaints came from the other side of the bathroom door which Victor chose to ignore as he dried his hair and used his skin products.  One advantage of having the short hair was the dry-time; he saved an hour a day in his schedule on that alone. 

 

He did still miss it sometimes, though.

 

He exited the bath to reach for his suit.

 

“Finally!” Yuri spat.  “I’m bored as hell and Yakov’s been calling your phone while you were playing fucking day-spa in there.”

 

Viktor rolled his eyes as he dressed, and pulled his phone from the charger to call Yakov.  He had barely placed the phone to his ear when the yelling started: “Vitya! Where are you?!  The RSF is waiting, and nearly everyone else is already here!”

 

“Yakov! How thoughtful of you to check in on me!” he answered cheerfully.  “Does the food look promising?”

 

“Vitya!!”

 

“Little Yuri and I will be right there, so save us a good seat, will you?”

 

“I’m not  _ little _ !”  The Ice Tiger snapped in the background as he pulled on his shoes.  

 

“Vitya.  Get your butt down here with Yuri.   _ Now _ .”

 

“Oh?  It’s this time already? I had no idea,” he replied casually; he imagined that he could almost  _ hear _ the veins popping in Yakov’s substantial forehead.  Then, an exasperated sigh through the handset and the sound of background noise reduced, likely the result of Yakov stepping outside of the banquet hall to a more private location for the call.  Damn. Here it comes.

 

“Is it your foot?”  came the noticeably quieter and expected question.  “Do you need the doctor to go up there?”

 

Probably.  

 

He probably did. 

 

It felt like someone was piercing the hollow of his left foot’s arch with an ice pick.  The insert for his shoe dulled the sharpness of the pain, but it really only distributed it to the whole of the bottom of his foot so that it was tolerable.  “No,” he answered instead of affirming Yakov’s concerns. “I just got carried away getting ready. That’s all.”

 

He could tell that he wasn’t believed by the definite three beats of silence before Yakov spoke again.  “When we get back, you do not take the ice until you see him for a full examination.”

 

“Understood.”

 

“Vitya-”

 

“I said I  _ understood _ , Yakov,” he retorted seriously.  

 

“What you say and what you do are totally different things, Vitya. This is not another lesson I want you to learn the hard way.”

 

No.  He was not in the mood for that type of conversation.  No. He wanted to take his painkiller, drink the free champagne, and then put Little Yuri to bed to go get plastered with Chris.   Maybe this time he would just allow it to happen and wake up in the morning in Chris’s bed. How bad could it really be? Chris would understand that they weren’t “together” right?  Chris said he didn’t have expectations. Maybe there was not any harm at all in blowing off steam and maybe creating some steam of a different sort with the Swiss skater. How long had it been since he’d gotten laid anyway?  Since he couldn’t remember the name of the last one, that meant it had probably been long enough. Chris was also the one partner where showing up for some shenans with an ugly bulky foot pack wouldn’t even bring about a question  either. He’d be able to get back before Little Yuri woke up anyway if needed. 

 

Fine.  Maybe he’d just let it happen with Chris after all and leave the consequences unintended to deal with later.  Premium Vodka should not be wasted when it could lead to finding himself on his back with Chris’s gorgeously toned body looming over him as kisses showered down upon him like rain…

 

“Oh!  Would you look at the time?” he exclaimed, interrupting his own thoughts, the fake smile and fake happiness in full employ.   “Yakov, if you don’t let me hang up, Yuri and I will be very fashionably late to the banquet! We can’t have that because I won!”

 

“Fine,” his coach snapped.  “Continue to think only of yourself and see how far that gets you in this life.”

 

Ouch.  

 

Shit.  

 

“We’ll be right down,”  he replied flatly. There was really nothing else he could say so he hung up the phone.

 

A very audible “tch” from the mouth of Yuri Plisetsky got his attention and the boy had a scowl on his face, but, behind that, Victor could see little gears turning in the kid’s head.  He needed to get out of there. 

 

“What the hell was that about?”  the younger skater grumbled.

 

“Hmm?  Oh, we’re just late and he wants to leave, so he’s antsy.”

 

“Idiot.  That’s not what I meant.”

 

The elder studied the boy carefully; there were times when this child was dangerously perceptive and Victor did not want to deal with it.

 

“None of your business.”

 

The green eyes narrowed and one middle finger rose, but no further comment was made.  Yuri switched off the television and the pair exited the room to make the short commute within the building to the banquet hall.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kudos <3 I'm really humbled and grateful for it!  
> Thank you for reading and for giving of your time to this self-indulgent little fic.   
> ~Ceile


	4. Chapter Four

The banquet was already in full swing when they arrived, but, at the sight of both the Junior and Senior Men’s gold medalists, the throng parted as if by the command of God for Moses, and hundreds of eyes stuck to them like glue.  Victor waved generously to the crowd, giving a quick pinch to the back of Yuri’s arm to get him to do the same. This was performance. This was part of the show. “Fake it ‘til you make it” time.

 

After wading through the RSF reps, the ISU reps, and the reps of various other countries’ federations, Victor finally managed to take a flute of champagne off the tray of a passing waiter.  God. His foot was reminding him that the painkillers hadn’t quite kicked in and he looked around to spot the table occupied by the Russian team. He walked over to it and sat down between Yakov and Mila Babicheva, relegating Yuri Plisetsky to a spot well at the 12 o’clock to his 6 o’clock of the white-linen clad expanse.  It would be easier to keep an eye on him if he was right there in front of him. “You’re quite late, Vitya,” came the admonishment. “Some of the Russian press have already left.”

 

He exhaled.  “There’s plenty of material they can recycle.”

 

“That’s not the point.”

 

Victor took another sip as a waiter came by with the silence of a ninja to inquire as to whether or not he would like anything else to drink besides the champagne.  “Just water, please,” he responded blandly having already felt the man slip something into the pocket of his jacket. It had happened plenty of times, a phone number subtly handed to him casually by a passerby or a fan, or a waiter.  Whatever; there was a time when it excited him, but now it was simply par for the course. He reached into the pocket and read the small note full of promises of a number of lewd acts the man would be willing to perform for his benefit. He crumpled the paper and dropped it on the floor and squashed it with his insert-laden Prada shoe. ‘Too bad for you, Mikhail’, he thought, ‘if that’s even your name.’

 

When the waiter returned with the water, Victor flashed him the smile that said get the fuck out of my sight while sweetly saying,  “Thank you for your  _ kind _ offer, however, I am otherwise engaged this evening.”

 

It appeared to startle the waiter to have had his plot discovered so quickly, and no doubt the look Victor was giving him made it clear he didn’t have a chance.  Thankfully, he got the hint and another waiter handled their table for the remainder of the dirink service.

 

It was stifling sitting there; the food was passable but not great, and Victor found himself tapping an index finger on his knee under the table and looking around aimlessly.  He spotted Chris at his own table with the Swiss Skating Federation oldsters and, much like his own sense of being watched, Chris immediately looked up and gave him a little smirk.  He looked around the room some more and spied the Italians, the Canadians, and, eventually, his eyes rested upon what had to be the table for the Japanese Skating Federation, with their Senior men’s skater nowhere in sight.

 

Maybe he wasn’t going to attend the banquet at all.

 

Victor flagged not-Mikhail over for another glass of champagne.  Well. So much for apologizing for Little Yuri. Or for himself. Or for figuring out how that competitor had been able to look through his best plastic smile and melt it away in the lobby of the rink.

 

He downed the champagne and informed Yakov that he was going to walk around for a while.  To his dismay, Yuri also rose and tagged along behind him, not bothering to wait to stop chewing his food before leaving the table.  Victor ignored his presence, hoping that he would find some of the other juniors who were still in attendance to play with, but that didn’t appear to be happening.  That wasn’t surprising; none of those kids could stand the boy, and he wasn’t interested in helping his own case on that front anyway, especially not now since he was moving up.

 

As the pair walked, they were both pulled away by some members of the Italian Federation and Victor slid into his “meet-and-greet” persona easily, making sure to introduce the Junior Gold Medalist as well, a walking advert for Mother Russia and all her fruitful bounty.  A performance. A show.

 

An  _ act. _

 

A  _ farce _ .

 

He was finally making his way closer to where Chris was standing talking to his own people.  Maybe they could plan their escape early; he didn’t feel like being there, he didn’t like having his little Yuri Plisetsky shadow following him around, he didn’t like that Yakov was stubbornly not leaving as early as Victor thought he might.  It was then that he heard a booming baritone of a voice speaking accented English from a few feet away. He looked over his right shoulder and Yuri snapped his head to the sound of his name as well, even though it was clear that he was not the “Yuri” being spoken to.   Oh Dear God. It looked like Katsuki wanted to be anywhere else but at this event, and Victor’s heart went out to him. 

 

What?  His what? 

 

No.  

 

The painkiller had finally kicked in and his foot felt somewhat normal and his head felt a little swimmy with the addition of the two glasses of champagne to the medicine he should have taken much earlier than he actually had.  There was no heart located in the bottom of his foot, he was pretty sure. It had to be the painkillers. 

 

And what was the big deal?  He knew he had to apologize, but, as he looked on while paying half of his attention to the Italian Federation members, or was it the Canadians by now?, he realized there was no way that he could approach the skater from Japan while he looked like  _ that _ .   The only thing he actually wanted to do was make it over to Chris, lose Yuri Plisetsky, and get his hands and lips on that bottle of vodka in Chris’s room.

 

Maybe getting his hands and lips on the _ Chris  _ in Chris’s room was exactly what he needed too.

 

He looked over toward Yuuri Katsuki once more.

 

And he should not have.  

 

That odd stirring started again; it wasn’t pity, he was sure of it.  An elite skater from any country was still an elite, and didn’t deserve to be treated with pity after a lousy skate.  It wasn’t pity.

 

It was...it was…

 

He didn’t know, but looking at the younger man was akin to torture, and he was definitely needing to stop.

 

So why couldn’t he stop sneaking glances anyway?  What exactly was he looking at? Or, what was he looking  _ for _ ?

 

He really should simply get himself together and look at the Japanese skater objectively.  If he could do that enough to mentor Yuri Plisetsky, he could surely translate that skill to the other Yuuri and figure out what to do about being totally dissed at the venue by the most forlorn looking skater he’d ever seen, who saw right through him, who turned away while giving him  a shit-ton of  _ nothing, _ who-

 

Damn it.    

 

Be.  Objective.

 

The ill-fitting suit was a crime against fashion, the tie might as well be a relic from before any of them were even born. And the shoes. The  _ shoes _ .  Deplorable.  There should be Italian leather on those feet that are his livelihood and not those half-scuffed plasticky-looking patent-leather nightmares.  ‘Burn it all. Treat your body better than that,’ he chided silently to the Japanese skater. 

 

His hair was spilled over his glasses;  ‘Get some product on that beautiful black hair, damnit.’  

 

The bangs-glasses combo made it seem like the younger man was hiding his good looks, making him to appear more boyish than a man in his 20s would normally appear.  Why hide? Those lovely features were in total remission in his current look. His beauty as a man, which Victor knew was there from seeing him on the screen of the video, and on his GPF banners which adorned the lobby with the rest of the Final Six, was purposely nullified.   Tragic. Maybe Yuuri Katsuki thought that if he could hide behind the plain school-boy look that he could disappear into the background and fade away to nothing. 

 

Maybe he was going to... _ retire _ .    ‘You were one of the  _ Final Six _ .  So stop looking as unhappy as I feel…’

 

Oh.  Oh.

 

Shit.

 

If Katsuki was going to be that miserable, why would his coach drag him out anyway?  It sounded like the man was trying to bribe his student to stay with  _ pizza _ of all the absurd things in the world.

 

Now the frustration hit Victor like meeting the ice with a cold, wet, indelicate thud after losing the edge on a take-off.    This was ridiculous. Did he really need to be there any longer? He made his appearance, he paraded Little Yuri around plenty.  Why was it taking him so long to get to Chris and to get the hell out of there?

 

He turned again and watched as Yuuri Katsuki shrugged off his coach and made his way toward the Champagne table where he lifted a glass.  Victor watched as the man raised the glass to his lips, hesitating as if debating within himself to actually take a drink before he threw it back in one gulp and reached immediately for another flute.  Victor narrowly missed catching the skater’s eye when he turned slightly, but the younger man returned to face the table, his back to the crowd and draped in that sorry-ass excuse for a suit.

 

He looked...so defeated.

 

Stop looking like that.

 

Stop.  

 

Stop it.   _ Now _ .

 

“Victor?”

 

Chris.  Thank God.

 

He snapped his head back and gave an almost authentic and less plastic smile to his friend.  “There you are, Chris, I’ve been trying to get to you for ages already.”

 

“Oh?”  the addressed responded with a sip from his champagne flute taken after subtly tongueing the glass in a little show designed for Victor’s eyes alone not to miss.  “I’ve been here the whole time, cheri, it’s you who made the late grand entrance with the Faerie Princess on your arm,” he declared with a little huff.

 

Thankfully Yuri Plisetsky didn’t hear the comment as he stuffed his face with fruit from the hors d'oeuvres table, or there would have been some choice words said that Victor would have had to shut down and apologize for.  “I’m supposed to look after him. Not like I have a choice.”

 

“We both know you’re the one who made you two late,” Chris remarked, “I know how vain you are.”

 

Victor pouted a little in response with mock-disdain.  “I don’t know what you are talking about,  _ mon ami _ , I’m a natural beauty!”

 

“Yeah, yeah,”  Chris relented with a little sparkle of mischief in his verdant eyes.  “I think the last time we  _ really _ went out you finally let me find the answer to one of figure skating’s most enduring mysteries.”

 

Victor leaned back and took another flute of champagne from the tray of another not-Mikhail waiter as he passed by.  This was more like it, this was better. “Oh? And what mystery would that be?” 

 

“The one about whether or not the carpet matches the drapes, cheri,”  Chris whispered. 

 

“Ah,” Victor returned casually, keeping his voice to a whisper as well, and not disliking the flutter he started to feel in his gut.  This was definitely better now. Chris was certainly more forward than usual, bringing  _ that _ up.  He always said no expectations, but Victor wasn’t believing him for shit tonight.   This went well beyond their fake-flirting and fake-dating, and clearly into the realm of seduction.  After feeling like shit for most of the night, maybe being seduced was just what the doctor ordered. Fine then.  He’ll play. “Where were we again?”

 

Chris rolled his eyes.  “Paris. We got kicked out before things got really interesting and I barely got an Absinthe-laden glimpse.  Or taste.”

 

Victor smiled again.  Ooh, Chris  _ was _ being very naughty indeed in between his cordial greetings to the sponsors and the federation reps that were the epitome of professionalism.  He had his own veils and masks, and Victor didn’t fault him for that one damn bit. 

 

And he did remember  _ that  _ night.  Most of it.  

 

He remembered that Absinthe did not taste very good, but the effect was marvellous.  He remembered staggering with his friend off the dancefloor to a dark corner at the rear of the club,  and he remembered continuing their dance with his back against the wall and Chris’s weight against his body, the Absinthe of their shared glass barely hitting their mouths as they poured it over their sloppy tongue kisses.  He remembered that talented Swiss man effortlessly running his hands down the length of his chest and under his ruined shirt drenched with alcohol and sweat, expertly undoing his pants and immediately stroking him as roughly as he liked to get it.  He remembered looking at the lasers of the club and feeling the thrum of the bass and the heat of Chris’s breath as he dipped his tongue into his navel. He remembered catching a few predatory stares from other men who wanted what Chris was getting, and he remembered dropping the empty glass he was still holding to the floor, somehow hearing it shatter above the music,  and he remembered smiling while flipping off those unworthy creatures.

 

He remembered Chris starting to go down on him before they both were unceremoniously yanked up by their shirts and tossed out the back door by an obscenely bulky bear of a bouncer.  

 

The mood turned somewhat sour then, Victor puking up whatever he drank into the gutter like a street urchin from some century long past, and he remembered Chris doing the same goddamn thing, and saying “Merde” over and over like it was the only word he knew.   It took their combined inebriated strength to hail a cab back to the hotel where they staggered right into both Yakov and Josef. The furious coaches had been waiting for them in the lobby with that shitty sixth-sense they possessed when they knew their two aces went out together, and the two young-ish competitors found themselves yanked up again and their disheveled asses dragged to their rooms.  Victor had a surreal memory of staring at the beautiful glittering lights of Les Champs-Elysee outside the window of his hotel room as his ears rung with the vestigial noise of the club, and how the room swayed when he focused on the lights, and how the lights kaleidoscoped when he didn’t care to focus at all. They were sparkling away as Yakov drilled into him for what had to be the millionth time about gay bars: “You’re a  _ celebrity _ !  The  _ tabloids _ !”,  and nameless sex as his coach roughly zipped up the trousers he forgot to zip up completely himself: “I didn’t have nameless sex.  I was with Chris,” and Absinthe being poison: “It’s legal, Yakov,” and that he’d be on a cleanse for a week for being so fucking stupid:  “I’m not fucking stupid!” and “Don’t be such a bad influence on other competitors!” It was more blah blah blah until Yakov was satisfied by the cold shower he forced him to take while he yelled some more about him never listening, even though he heard every word until the sun came up.   

 

Yes, he remembered Paris.   He also remembered that he didn’t actually get that blow job either.  

 

“Hmm...I do love Paris....but are you so sure you really saw  _ anything _ ?” he asked with a coquettish air he knew had certain  _ effects _ on his rival.    “If I recall correctly, that club was  _ very _ dark, and we were  _ very _ drunk…I might have deceived you.  Maybe it wasn’t me at all, maybe you’re thinking of someone else you charmed.  My memory of that night is kind of fuzzy.”

 

Chris leaned in close to his ear then, knowing what he said was all lies, warm breath sweetened with Champagne wisping a tiny hot breeze into the fine strands of hair nearby.  “Oh I’m pretty sure it was  _ your _ ugly French begging me to fuck you at the back of the dance floor.”

 

“I don’t recall saying anything like that.”  

 

That part was true, but he probably did say something like that.  Maybe. Probably. Oh well. Damn it, Chris. His French wasn’t  _ ugly.  _

 

“Someday I’ll punish you for being so forgetful.  Maybe that day will be today, no?”

 

Chris pulled back, not really requiring an answer, and none was given.  Would it be today? Maybe. Probably. Oh well. Damn it, Chris. Couldn’t they just leave right then so he could teach him some ugly Russian to go along with his supposed ugly French?

 

The pair continued to greet passersby, the sidelong glances Chris kept giving him were silent promises for later, full of flirty insinuations that didn’t need words, casual brushes of shoulders as people walked past, a hand “accidentally” touching his ass in a way that Victor knew was not an accident, and the game was definitely on.

 

And he was  _ just _ worked up enough with the memories of Paris and of the Champagne and painkillers running the courses of his veins that he had come to the decision that he didn’t need to care about what sleeping with Chris might do to their friendship later.  There were no ties that really bound them, and, honestly, he really couldn’t figure out why it hadn’t happened already anyway. They’ve been fooling around for years, getting into trouble with their coaches and with the management of various restaurants, bars, clubs, and hotels.  It made no sense that they weren’t actually sleeping together, they were pretty much doing everything  _ but _ if enough booze was involved.  Half the internet couldn’t be wrong, right?

 

But the timing had always been “off” somehow, or they got too adventurous being silly and stupid with their pranks that they had to pay consequences which interrupted the natural line of flirting-drinking-dancing-making out-fucking.  Their schedules didn’t help, and fatigue would sometimes catch up to them right in the middle of things and it would end up easier to just drink together and then go their separate ways to pass out in their own hotel rooms.

 

For some reason, neither of them even pushed back when one or the other decided to go back to his room alone, and Victor supposed that should be telling him something too.  Chris was probably the only person he could truly say was something of a friend, especially now that Stephane was retired, and he’d never shared the fun Chris-type antics with Stephane anyway aside from dishing over details with him afterward.  So Chris was probably his only friend after all, and maybe that’s why he always stopped short of making him something more which would turn that one friend who was uniquely that into one of the small collection of one-night stands of men whose faces he’d forced himself to mostly forget.  He wouldn’t be able to forget Chris; he’d see him in the season, he’d see him at the off-season gatherings of other skaters. Chris could not be avoided and forgotten like the other men who weren’t involved in skating in any way, shape, or form; the fact that they were totally removed from his life in skating was not an accident.  It would be very difficult to remove Chris from his life if and when it didn’t work out.

 

And, sometimes it had been good with those ice skating civilians; he’d been tempted to keep one or more of their phone numbers but always decided not to in the end.  Even if it was good, it didn’t quite feel real; it was about satiating a need and getting back to the rink where he belonged and where they didn’t. 

 

He didn’t miss any of them anyway.

 

Other than the one-or-two Almost-Kept-His-Phone-Number guys, the occasional tryst was a drunk and clumsy mess, and he was just tired of having only his hair and body worshipped, as if his entire worth was tangled in the long tresses and in his competition physique.  He had grown tired of men insisting that they wanted him to dominate them as much as he wanted until he was spent, when really what Victor craved was to be embraced. And he’d become wary of those others who wanted to embrace him only with perfunctory intent before getting to the grand finale so that they could boast that they fucked  _ The _ Victor Nikiforov before he’d throw them out of the hotel room barely giving them time to dress themselves.  Sometimes they got thrown out before they dressed, and Victor would toss the clothes into the hallway just to remove any trace of the encounter, and sometimes he pulled his Unreasonable Celebrity Demand card and demanded to be moved to a different room.  Was it so bad to want to be held? Did he want that so much that he’d take it even for a split second before clothes came off and mouths and hands and other body parts went  _ everywhere _ ?

 

Once, several years ago, he thought he finally found someone, an older man,  who could be content with just spending time with him. An hours long date of touring museums and eating a lavish dinner had Victor beaming to be with a person who actually didn’t mind if he talked about everything and nothing, who didn’t care that it was November and he wanted ice cream, who spoiled him with a new outfit and a trip to the spa.  He felt the fake smile slip into the real one more than one time during the date, and the pleasantness resulted in being taken back home to his own place because he was exhausted from having such a fun day. The man seated himself on the sofa and covered them both with a blanket, as he stroked his long hair soothingly and held him until he slept.  Victor thought he’d finally found something that could be real, once. 

 

After a blissful nap next to that person’s warmth, awareness crept back in and he opened his eyes and stared upward at the man, expecting the same congenial looks he’d been receiving the entire day.   But, he saw him change into something else, something dreadfully familiar, something he’d seen a few times before. He felt confused, and his stomach soured as the soothing touch became heated, as the praise that had been comforting took a decidedly lustful turn, and then it all went per usual after that because Victor didn’t know how to stop the inevitable. Even this man had wanted the same thing, he just had a bit more patience than had the others.   So he just played the part and _ performed _ until his stamina ran out and he fell into a dead sleep.  

 

Victor awakened the following morning to money left on his nightstand.

 

He couldn’t move, he felt paralyzed as he lay naked in his own bed, then he dissolved into hysterics until he managed to call for Yakov.   His coach rushed to his apartment and Victor just clung to him as he shook, hearing the man whisper “Vitya” over and over to calm him down.  And then, when he pulled himself together enough to accept Yakov’s handkerchief to wipe the snot off his face, his stomach finally lurched and he bolted to the bathroom.   When Yakov came into the room, he immediately started to yell at him as he held that long silver hair back while Victor puked the outcome of his poor-decision-making skills down the toilet.  

 

Even if he was the one who had been “paid”, it felt like it had cost him so much more to learn that no love was ever given or received for free.  After he’d cleaned up his act a little bit more, he had almost been able to forget that incident, and he didn’t know what became of the money anyway.  He found out later when he received a thank you card from a home for troubled youths for his generous donation that Yakov sent the money there. He supposed it was Yakov’s way of acknowledging that he was trying, he supposed, and also a subtle reminder that if it weren’t for his natural skating talent, he probably would have been a resident of that very home himself.

 

Or maybe he would just be dead already.

 

He never saw that man again;  likely Yakov had made for that to happen.  The last thing his coach would have needed was to see a tabloid headline about Russia’s 20 year old champion being the “kept boy” of some older rich man who had wanted him for his collection of beautiful things.  

 

They never spoke of it again, and Victor kept on winning.  He still got into trouble; he still partied too hard and let the wrong people touch him sometimes, but at least he wasn’t deceived by anything anymore.  There was no reason to get caught up in feelings beyond lust when he knew it would not be reciprocated. 

 

And some nights were so fun that it was almost worth having Yakov give him the silent treatment for a few days here and there.  Almost.

 

Now, at 27, there really weren't any affairs to speak of; he’d accepted the fact that Life and Love were simply not in the cards for him after all.   Skating demanded so much from his aging body; there wasn’t time or energy for much else if he wanted to keep winning. So Chris became the natural partner for fun and games; they both acutely knew their circumstances. It was easier to have a little fun and then walk away as if they were each others’ mistress to the ice they had sworn solemn marriage vows.

 

That might change after this night, but they’d just have to see what the result would be.  Chris was not playing around this time; it was probably going to happen. 

 

“Victor?”

 

The gold medalist came out of his reverie to find that Chris was studying him intently.  Shit. He didn’t intend to space out like that; he didn’t know why all of those memories were flooding his drugged-and-Champagne-hazed brain, but the show must go on, and if this was going to happen, he sure was going to make the most of it.  “What is it, mon ami? Have you been staring at me again? I’m sorry if my beauty made you suffer,” he quipped as he raised the back of his hand to his forehead in a melodramatic gesture.

 

“Tch.”

 

Victor pouted toward Chris’s irritated noise and took Chris’s empty glass from his hand, set both their glasses down, and dragged him over to the side of the room.  “What’s wrong, Chris?” he asked seriously, “Are you having second thoughts about later?”

 

Chris was studying him again.  “I was about to ask you the same question.”

 

What?  Didn’t he just make the decision to go with it?  Why was Chris, of all people, suddenly casting doubt upon how this evening was going to end up?  “Of course I’m not,” he declared evenly. “I’ll go tell little Yuri it’s almost time to go and we can get on with it.”

 

Chris looked at him seriously once more, but then his face relaxed.  “Mmm...are you trying to be forceful with me? That’s new,” he remarked playfully.  “Of course, I’ll certainly be happy to oblige you in any way that you want.”

 

Victor exhaled.  Okay. Whatever that momentary awkwardness was, it slipped away and the pair reset themselves.  “Maybe that’s the real me and I just haven’t shown it to you yet. Are you surprised?”

 

Chris chuckled.  “I think I might prefer hearing you beg for it again in your ugly French.”

 

“I don’t need to beg; you’re an eager and willing participant.  Maybe I’ll be pushing you off of me and onto your back instead.”

 

Toward this, Chris actually laughed.  He  _ laughed _ .  Really.  “I don’t know what has you so worked up tonight, cheri, but I’ll take it.”

 

Victor huffed again.  He supposed it was his own fault that Chris had assumptions about how things would go; when they fooled around, usually Chris took the lead after all, but it wasn’t like he didn’t have his own thoughts from time to time about showing the Swiss man a thing or ten.  He did show him a few things early on, but Chris took the knowledge and ran with it, and the next time they had met for a follow-up, Chris had obviously learned a lot more in the interim. Victor never asked him about it, and the younger never shared, but it was clear by that point that Chris had decided what his preferences were, and Victor topping him probably wasn’t one of them. It was probably one of the consequences of having such a long history of “not-quites” together, that their experiences with other people would surpass whatever they actually did with each other.  The ante was already up and Victor was already more in the mood than he had been for a long time. Maybe having Chris in charge would be for the best anyway.

 

“I think we’ve waited long enough.  I’ll tell Yuri it’s time to leave.”

 

Chris nodded and they both started to scan the room looking for Yuri Plisetsky.  Victor was looking toward the exit when he felt Chris tug on his suit jacket. “Well, well, what have we here?”

 

Victor turned and followed Chris’s gaze.  Sure enough, the Junior gold medalist was talking to Yuuri Katsuki of Japan.  That cannot be a good thing. “Uh-oh,” Victor said quietly. As he and Chris made their way a little closer, the two Yuri’s were clearly engaging in some kind of argument.  And, oh dear God, how many empty glasses of Champagne were sitting there on the table?! Ten?! No, a dozen?! _Sixteen?!_  Sixteen glasses of Champagne; did the Japanese Yuuri really drink all of that?!  If that was the case, it was sort of sad that he had to drink his sorrows away like that, but then again, it was also kind of amazing that he wasn’t passed out or off crying in a corner.   If anything, he looked like he was _enjoying_ arguing with Yuri Plisetsky.   How was that even possible? It took _sixteen_ _glasses_ of Champ to get this guy to relax and maybe have a good time, and his good time of choice was arguing with an unruly Russian teenager?   Wow.

 

“Oh yeah?  I fucking dare you, Asshole!”  came the shout from said Russian teenager.

 

And then, a surprise Victor was not expecting:  Yuuri Katsuki just smirked. Then he smiled. Then he  _ laughed _ .

 

Wow~.  

 

Wait.  What was that?  His chest did that little thing again.  No. It was a different little thing. It was...it was...something.  Katsuki was really cute up closer, but, shit, did he just hear Yuri Plisetsky call him an asshole?  Oh, hell no. Victor was about to call out to the little punk when he felt Chris pinch his arm. “Shh.  Let’s see what’s going on here, cheri. Something tells me it will be worth it.”

 

“Chris.  I can’t let Yuri call another skater an asshole in front of everyone,” Victor hissed back.  

  
“It doesn’t look like Katsuki is caring all that much.  He’s trashed, but he’s smiling and laughing, which is  _ rare _ , let me tell you.  And look at Yuri’s face. He’s getting so pissed off like an angry kitten,” he added with a snicker.

 

Victor looked again and Yuuri Katsuki had crossed his arms over his chest and was looking at little Yuri with a challenge behind his gaze, and little Yuri looked less like a kitten and looked more like he was about to  _ shit _ kittens instead.  “I guess you’re chicken shit after all, Yuuuuri Plishetshky,” Katsuki slurred, but he had that little cocky smile in full employ and his eyes were literally sparkling behind his glasses, goading the teenager into getting him exactly where he wanted him.

 

“Wow,”  Chris breathed, reading Victor’s mind.  “I’ve never heard him swear. Now we  _ have _ to find out what’s going on.”

 

Victor found that he couldn’t take his eyes off of the drunk Japanese skater; he was standing there, staring Yuri Plisetsky down with such confidence, arms crossed and looking pointedly at him.  Where was that during his fucking programs?! What in the world could they be talking about?!   
  


“I’m not a chicken shit!”  Yuri spat. “Fine. I accept your lame challenge and I’m going to  _ beat _ your ass, Loser.  So fucking bring it!”

 

What?  Challenge?  Were they going to get into a fight?  Oh no. This was so full of wrong, he needed to run over there, drag Yuri away, and-

 

“Hmpf,”  came the nonchalant response with another little smirk which had the effect of stopping Victor dead in his tracks.  “Consider it  _ brought _ .”

 

Before Victor and Chris realized what was happening the Japanese skater grabbed a bottle of Champagne from the table and started drinking directly from it, his tongue flicking out just a bit to catch a sip that dribbled down the side of his mouth.  Holy hell. Holy fucking hell. What was happening here? 

 

“My, my,”  Chris drawled,  “Are you sure you want to leave?”

 

As Victor considered, Katsuki slammed the bottle back down on the table, the glasses came off and landed unceremoniously beside it,  and the ugly suit jacket was tossed to a nearby chair. He was standing there in front of a fuming Yuri Plisetsky with that confident little half-smile and started rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt to his elbows and loosening that god-awful tie.  “You  _ do _ know that I’ve been dancing for longer than you’ve been  _ alive _ , right?”

 

Dancing?  What?

 

“No.  We’re staying,”  he said to Chris, barely finding his voice.

 

Chris only chuckled in response toward the words of his friend and toward Yuri Plisetsky’s flustered reaction.  The kid was speechless and only managed to flip Katsuki the middle finger. 

 

“I’m going to  _ win _ , Yuri- _ chan _ ,”  the Japanese skater returned, with his words sharp as blades and his soft voice cold as ice; none of the alcohol slur was present at all now, as if some sort of switch had been irrevocably flipped.  “Watch and  _ learn _ .” 

 

Again.  Wow. So confident.  So demanding. So…

 

Sexy.

 

“Was he always this hot?”  Victor murmured, reflexively getting out his phone.  Instinctively he knew that whatever was about to occur would be something that required documentation.  He wasn’t alone in thinking that either, because he noticed that Chris had his phone out as well, along with Mila Babicheva and Sara Crispino and several other banquet attendees besides.  Thank goodness Yakov had already left. 

 

“I guess we’re about to find out,”  Chris supplied as the drunk Japanese man walked right past them without a word but,  _ oh God _ , did he just  _ wink  _ at them both?!

 

Victor’s very breath caught in his throat and Chris whistled in appreciation before leaning in close to his ear again.  “Can we put inviting a third on the table for discussion?”

 

Victor heard a little groan escape his throat. Damn. Now that was something they hadn’t done in a  _ very _ long time, and the few times it occurred, Chris ended up doing most of the work with the other man while Victor just drank and watched until he passed out.   He shook his head and recovered himself. “Absolutely not. He’s wasted.”

 

“But  _ look _ at him.”

 

Victor looked.  That little hottie was whispering something to the DJ and handing him his phone, ostensibly to pick some music.  “What’s happening, Chris?”

 

“If I didn’t know any better, it looks like Yuuri Katsuki has challenged the Faerie Princess to a dance battle.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for reading. <3 I do hope you enjoy.  
> ~Ceile


	5. Chapter Five

Victor watched as the conversation continued with the DJ until the Japanese man gave him a satisfied smile.  He turned and walked back toward the Champagne table, took up the bottle once more, and took another huge gulp of it, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before turning to Yuri Plisetsky.   “The music drops. Then  _ you _ start,”  he ordered the teenager and Victor’s stomach did a flip and Chris shook his head in apparent agreement, or maybe it was in disbelief.  The Swiss skater might have known Yuuri Katsuki better than he did, but it was obvious he wasn’t expecting this particular turn of events either.  That boy could order him around any time he wanted if that was how he looked and sounded while doing it. Damn.

“I want to watch this,”  Victor heard himself say. Suddenly the boring run-of-the-mill banquet just became so much the opposite.  He loved impromptu things like this, but they rarely ever happened in this setting, and he felt his mood lighten with every smirk and smile that crossed the lips of Yuuri Katsuki.

Those very  _ kissable _ lips.

Whoa.  

“Obviously,” commented Chris, thankfully interrupting  _ that _ thought.   “This looks very promising, and you look absolutely giddy.”

Right.  Right! He can have a good time watching, and then he’d march right over there and chat Yuuri up all about his dancing.  They could start over and really  _ meet _ each other! Perfect!

“You know i love this kind of thing!”

“You’ll be able to check Surprise Banquet Dance Battle off your bucket list tonight.”

“I know!”

He couldn’t help it, this was exciting.  And surprising. And, God, he couldn’t wait for the current song to stop so he could hear what music Yuuri Katsuki selected for the dance-off.  Both the “contestants” started making their way toward the center of the room, and Victor and Chris found themselves moving back into the crowd which had formed a loose semi-circle around the enlarged impromptu dance battleground.  “I’m going to get some pictures from the other side,” Chris said, but Victor only felt himself nod without looking; he couldn’t take his eyes of Yuuri Katsuki as he kept drinking straight from the bottle of Champagne, as other people moved chairs and tables out of the way to make room for the dance.  He spied Mila and Sara giggling and getting their phones ready, and he did the same.

The next thing he knew, Yuri Plisetsky was taking pictures of the Japanese man with the bottle in hand,  _ really _ close up pictures which he will have to get him to send him later, and he found himself drifting closer to them.  Just when he thought he had gotten too close, Yuuri Katsuki turned around in all his sloppy, unfocused, drunk glory and smiled a cheeky smile.  “I’m a dansherer too, didya know that~?” 

Victor looked over his shoulder.  No one was there. Was Yuuri talking to  _ him _ ?  He snapped his head back, but the moment was gone and Yuuri was shaking out his limbs and doing a couple of perfunctory arm stretches with his back toward him, and Victor found himself lamenting over the missed opportunity to talk with him.  No, he didn't know he was a dancer too, though most skaters were well versed in ballet so that wasn’t too surprising to learn. 

And then Yuuri bent at the waist and touched his toes, his nose to his knees as he hugged his own legs from behind, and Victor thought he could die a happy man right the fuck then with that gorgeous ass and killer thighs less than six feet away from him.  

“Wow~,” he whispered aloud to no one.  

Suddenly the temperature in  the room felt like it was getting to be a bit too warm, and he reached for another glass of Champagne and drank it down in one gulp, just as he’d seen Katsuki do before.  The bubbles made a tingling sensation as they scurried down his throat and his mood had improved exponentially, and he couldn’t wait to start cheering Yuuri Katsuki on to victory in this dance battle and sorry,  _ not sorry _ , Ice Tiger of Russia.  

This was going to be so much fun!

Fun.

_ Fun. _

Skating banquets were not usually fun.  Usually it was a chore. But this...this…

The music started and it was all bass and synth and then a rough sounding vocal that sounded like an announcer to rile up the crowd:

_ “Ladies and Gentleman!   _

_ Welcome to Flight 909!  Taking you on a journey _

_ All around the world!” _

The pair were shaking out limbs, bouncing a little, and waiting for the song to drop and the girls were screaming with delight; this song must be something they’ve heard in the clubs they liked to go to after events.

Victor picked out an  _ “Are you ready?” _ from the intro and then after a few more bars of synth and more bouncing, he noticed Yuuri preparing to give Little Yuri a bar-count on his fingers with a deadly expression in his eyes like he was a predator sizing up prey.

He started counting off the meter of the music.  Can sexiness ooze from fingertips? Apparently if one was named Yuuri Katsuki it could.   “My God.” Yeah, he said it aloud. Fuck it.

_ “Ready for Take-off! _

_ We hit Turbulence!!”  _

The beat began pulsing in earnest then,  and Yuri Plisetsky started to dance a sort of hardstyle breakdance as Yuuri Katsuki looked on with mock-disinterest, to egg the teen further on.  He looked savage as he was studying the Ice Tiger’s movements, and Victor could tell that Yuri Plisetsky was getting into it no matter that he was loudly complaining the whole time about how embarrassing it was for him.

The beats were fast and the music sort of had a grinding sound and just kept hammering along as Yuri did his little break-dance thing.  It was a truly relentless piece of music?, especially from a choreography standpoint, but Little Yuri pulled plenty of whip-backs and knee drops and slides to hold his own.  All the while, Yuuri Katsuki was circling him shaking his head in mock-disapproval but his eyes were glittering, and smiling, and his body was unconsciously moving with the beat.  Damn. He looked so fucking hot, with a commanding presence despite the fact that he wasn’t really dancing yet, and Victor couldn’t take his eyes off him even as Little Yuri was dancing his heart out.  Finally, there was a break and Yuri stepped back while the vocalist shouted something else in the part of a psycho airplane captain addressing passengers.

_ “Initiate...Emergency...Procedures!”   _ screamed a lyric.

Yeah, Victor thought he was definitely having an emergency all right as the beats of the song broke to build up to an anthem drop, as Yuri got his applause,  and as the Japanese man could be seen getting ready for his turn, waving his hands up to get the crowd to join in with him.

Now, show me what you got, Yuuri Katsuki, Victor thought.  

The song hit a fever pitch saying “ _ higher, higher, higher higher _ ,” until another  _ “We hit turbulence!” _ and that anthem drop was Katsuki’s cue.  

Oh God.  

Oh dear God.

He copied Yuri’s moves perfectly, and he bested each one of them, and everyone watching, including Yuri Plisetsky, knew it.   The girls outright squealed, and a lot of the guys were hollering “Go Yuuri, go Yuuri!” as he moved into impossible twists and turns of torso and as his face made the most delicious expressions.

Another few seconds passed after the initial dance imitation, and the two were going at it fiercely trying to outdo each other, and Victor got caught up in the moment and started snapping away pictures on his phone from a distance.  This was amazing! Even the choice of music was much harder of a style than Victor would have guessed the Japanese skater to pick, but, clearly he picked something he thought fit Yuri Plisetsky to a tee. And it did.

And he was beating him soundly with every pulse of bass and pound of drum.  It was like the music came forth from Yuuri Katsuki’s very body; it happened on the ice too in his moves in the field and his captivating step sequences, but, on the dance floor, without the worry of flubbing jumps, he shone like a true master of the craft.  No matter that this was club or even street dancing, Victor could see the decade-plus of ballet the man had clearly studied in every flashy move.

There was no denying it;  Yuuri Katsuki was a terribly gifted dancer.  Maybe he should be a professional. He could be.  He moved so gracefully, even with the hard music; it was….

Amazing. 

Those abs.  Those thighs.  Was there such a thing as death by thighs?  Victor didn’t know, but if there was, this man would be the cause of it.

A one handed-spring back?!

What the actual  _ fuck _ ?

He glanced and saw that Chris was taking plenty of snaps too, as were the girls, and most of the younger people at the banquet were cheering “Yuri! Yuri!” and Victor laughed because it meant that no one knew which Yuri any of them were cheering for.  

He wanted to dance with this boy and that core that didn’t quit, with those feet that hit every mark with the lightness of a feather, with that death-drop that had his hair kissing the floor as he arched his back with his shirt riding up and-

Oh God.

Was this the same guy who was a nervous wreck during the competition?!  

He  _ owned _ that dance floor.  He owned  _ Yuri Plisetsky _ .  Hell, he’d own  _ him _ in a dance battle a million times over. 

Victor glanced over at Chris who was texting on his phone.  His own phone buzzed in his hand: “So...about that third?????”

He saw that it was Yuri Plisetsky’s turn again, so he quickly typed a response.  “I’m considering it.” Send.

Buzz.  “Consider carefully.  I’m this close to forgetting you and taking him for my very own self <3.”

_ What?! _

He looked up sharply and he knew he didn’t have on a friendly face.  And Chris just laughed at him from across the room. Buzz. “You have no chill.”

Right.  Calm down.  Chris was just being Chris.  And maybe he didn’t have any chill; how could he while witnessing moves like he was seeing?  God, was it really getting hot in the banquet hall? 

Just how many times was he going to invoke God tonight?  Being not much of a religious person, the only times he said or thought “God” this often was during sex. 

And, apparently, it also happened when Yuuri Katsuki decided to do a dance battle at a skating banquet.  Who knew? Well, praise whatever God brought him here to witness it.

The Ice Tiger left the floor and had his hands on his knees, breathing hard and focusing an angry glare on Yuuri Katsuki who was still pounding the floor while barely even breaking a sweat.  That was some stamina the guy had; Yuri Plisetsky was desperately trying not to cede any defeat; the two Yuris danced hard for the entire song and when it came to its abrupt end, the room went wild as Yuuri banged out a half handspring and Little Yuri sank to the floor in a heap.  The crowd roared and Victor was no exception; someone yelled to “Get than man a drink!” and Victor saw his chance.

He immediately obliged and handed a now-staggering Japanese skater another glass of Champ.  How could he have moved so precisely in the dance battle when he was clearly drunk of his very fine ass?!  The man didn’t even notice that it was Victor who handed him his drink! 

He didn’t notice.

He didn’t notice him at all.

At all.

Like before.

Just like when he turned on his heel and left him standing there not knowing what to do after offering him that fucking commemorative photo.  

“Let’s go, Geezer!”  came the shout from a sweat-soaked and disheveled Yuri Plisetsky snapping him to attention.  “I want outta here. NOW.”

By this time, Chris had returned to his side as well.  No. He was not leaving because it looked like Yuuri was getting encouragement from the room to keep going; Mila and Sara were particularly assertive about it too.  How could he leave now when he wanted nothing more than to dance with that gorgeous man? 

“No.”  

“Haaaah?!”  came the protest from Yuri and he heard another little chuckle from Chris besides.

“You heard me.  We’re staying.”

“Fuck.”

“Language, Yuri,”  he scolded. 

“Sorry Princess, you can’t have  _ all _ the fun; you  _ lost _ by the way, too,”  Chris quipped deviously, earning a deeper scowl as the two pairs of green eyes met each other.  Yuri Plisetsky couldn’t stand Chris, and the feeling was pretty much mutual, so Victor was sure that Chris was okay with staying just a bit longer to see what Yuuri Katsuki would do next.  “If Victor wants to stay, I guess you’re stuck with us.”

“Fat chance in hell I’m sticking near you two annoying assholes.”

Before Victor had a chance to scold him for calling them assholes, the teen stalked off to grab some water,  and he was drinking it while simultaneously trying to fix with a linen napkin from the buffet table the fact that he was a sweaty hot mess.   Victor supposed he had just received his comeuppance from his earlier words to the Japanese skater, and it served him right to learn a little humility.

“As for you, cheri,” Chris drawled, “you seem to be in much better spirits.”

“Who wouldn’t be after watching that?” he replied casually.  

“You want to dance with him, don’t you?”

Victor furrowed his brow.  “Are you kidding? Of course I do…!”

“But?”

“He...didn’t look at me  _ once _ !”  Victor exclaimed.  “I even gave him another drink just now and he didn’t look at me!”

Chris laughed again, uncontrollably, the act forcing his drink to go down the wrong way.  “Oh my, is my favorite Drama Queen offended that one of his Royal Subjects isn’t giving him the time of day?”

“Chrii~~~iis!”  He knew he was whining.  He didn’t fucking care either. “He tried to talk to me earlier but i didn’t realize he was talking to me, and he was asking me if I knew he was a dancer and I-”

“Okay, okay, my little trainwreck,”  Chris groaned. “Will you just stop? He’s D-R-U-N-K drunk.”

“So?  He still has eyes! He can still talk!  Why didn’t he look at me or say  _ anything _ just now?”

“What makes that different from any other time you’ve been in the same competition with him?”  Chris retorted with that clicking sound he always did with his tongue when he was getting annoyed.  

Oh.  Oh yeah.  Victor had never actually had a legitimate conversation with Yuuri Katsuki before.  Ever.

He exhaled, and he could feel that he was pouting, but his heart was pounding from the energy of the dance battle.  “I want to dance with him,” he said quietly.

“Then go pick a song and ask him.”

“No!”  Shit. He didn’t mean to shout.  “I mean….how can I just do that? Clearly he could have asked me, and instead he danced with Yuri.”

“That looked more like unfinished business to me,”  Chris remarked. 

Actually, that was logical.  That made sense. Chris often made perfect sense at the most odd of times.  

“Besides, if you dance with him, maybe you’ll convince yourself to invite him tonight, hmm?”

Ah.  Yes. The “third”.   

“Are you serious about that?”

“I’m  _ always _ serious about that kind of thing, cheri,” Chris returned, his hand brushing his ass underneath the jacket of his suit with the subtlest of touches.  “I know I told you I’d oblige you with whatever you want, but I must confess that I’d love a piece of that action,” he added with a nod in the Japanese skater’s direction who was engaged in lively conversation with Sara Crispino between sips from the glass Victor had given him.   As her brother Michele and as Mila Babicheva looked on, Yuuri seemed to be enjoying Sara’s company. 

Oh.  Uh-oh.

“Um, Chris?”

“Hmm?”

“He seems to be pretty friendly with the Crispino girl.”

“Hmm…,”  Chris shrugged, “yeah, I’ve seen them talk a little at competitions.  Why?”

“Oh.”

Well that reality check sucked.  Here he was getting all worked up over how gorgeous the Japanese skater was, even still somewhat seriously considering inviting him to be part of a fucking menage-a-trois for fuck’s sake, and said skater was chatting up Sara Crispino.  A girl. A very pretty, exotic-looking,  _ talented _ , skater, _ girl. _

“Victor, what-”

“Is he straight, Chris?”

Chris chuckled.  “Honestly, I don’t know his whole deal or anything.”

Victor faced his friend with an accusatory glare.  “Then how dare you think to ask him to join us if you don’t  _ know _ ?!” he hissed.

  
“I said I didn’t know his  _ whole _ deal, but I know enough, cheri.  I’m surprised you haven’t found out about some of his ‘deal’,  because it’s pretty much common knowledge, but whatever. If you are too oblivious to know something then I don’t have to tell you.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Invite him, and let’s find out together, shall we?”

Victor didn’t like secrets.  Of course they were a part of life, and of course everybody had them, but he really didn’t like when something was kept secret from him specifically.  Chris fucking knew it too. Was he baiting him or something? Victor couldn’t really tell, but he knew for sure that Chris had his sights on that sexy dancer, and that train was quickly pulling away from the station.  

And Victor still wanted to dance with him, so whatever Yuuri Katsuki’s “deal” was, he could worry about that later, but he definitely couldn’t let Chris think taking the man back with them was a foregone conclusion.  At. All.

“I’m not ready to invite him for that.”

“Tch.  You seemed ready a few minutes ago when your jaw was scraping the floor.”

“I...we...if we don’t know, we can’t, Chris.”

“Then maybe you should just grow a pair and ask him, Nikiforov?”

Right.  Sure. Wait a minute.  “Hey! Are you  _ insulting _ me?!”

Chris laughed.  “Look. He’s having fun.  Just go over there and have fun too, you Flake.”

Victor followed the tip of Chris’s pointing finger and, sure enough, Yuuri was still chatting with Sara, and even with Mila too.  Maybe he could hit up Mila later for the details. Even Yuri Plisetsky joined the small group and, as Victor looked on from afar, it looked like the cocky smirk was back on the Japanese man’s face before he wrapped an arm around the younger Yuri and smiled the most genuinely pure smile that made Victor catch his breath again.   The teenager immediately yanked himself out of the embrace as though it was the Holy Water to his Demon, but Yuuri kept on smiling.

And drinking, but  _ smiling _ .

Wait a minute. 

If Yuri “F-bomb” Plisetsky could talk to the Japanese skater and earn that smile, why couldn’t he?  What the hell was wrong with  _ him _ ?  He was twenty-seven fucking years old and not a child, right?  He could chat up a guy; he’d chatted up plenty of hot guys in all sorts of situations, so there should be no problem.   He could flirt with the best of them, no problem. He could be sexy and irresistible too, goddamnit, no problem. He could call any number of people and hook up if he wanted, no problem.  Hell, he was the bearer of a standing hookup invitation from Christophe Giacometti, one of the sexiest guys in skating since  _ ever _ , no problem. 

He was  _ The _ Victor-Fucking-Nikiforov.   There should be  _ No Problem _ .

However…

Clearly Yuuri Katsuki didn’t want to talk to him.  Well, he was still D-R-U-N-K drunk, so maybe Victor could get away with thinking that “apparently” he didn’t want to talk to him.

So he didn’t want to talk?  Fine then. No talking.

He could work with that.

Victor suddenly took the glass of Champagne Chris had in his hands and drank it down, and then he grabbed two more and handed one to the startled Swiss skater and drank the other down in one gulp.  “Chris, I’m going to dance with that man. We’ll talk about ‘thirds’ later.”

“The thirst is real.  Rawr.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song Credit: Laidback Luke & Steve Aoki Ft. Lil Jon - Turbulence 
> 
> Thank you so much for the kudos and bookmarks. I'm really grateful. <3
> 
> I know that there existed (exists?) some serious debate in the fandom about the order of the dance battles, but I'm doing what makes sense to me and what was the most fun way to write for it. So I'm begging your pardon for my self-indulgence in this, once again. ;) 
> 
> If even one person is enjoying themselves while reading this little train wreck of a story, I'm happy. 
> 
> Thank you very much!
> 
> ~Ceile


	6. Chapter Six

Victor walked past the group of skaters who were talking to Yuuri Katsuki on his way to visit the DJ, trying to be nonchalant, but maybe also trying to get the drunk Japanese man’s attention.  

 

Well, that didn’t work.  

 

He was caught up in all of Mila’s and Sara’s attention, and Yuri Plisetsky was chiming in whenever with probably ill-timed insults toward them all.  But Yuuri was laughing, slurring his words in an odd mix of slurry English and what had to be his native Japanese, but the foursome was laughing with him and not at him.  Oh what story was he telling that kept them so enraptured? Victor was dying to know, but he wouldn’t just barge in and potentially risk the disappearance of that earnest smile.

 

No.  No talking.

 

He scrolled through his playlists thinking about what kind of song he should select to play that would encourage the Japanese skater to start dancing again.  He wanted something less hard, maybe a slower tempo that would encourage fewer of the super athletic demi-flips and handsprings and whip-backs in favor of a more seductive baseline that might speak to Yuuri Katsuki’s lovely body.

 

His thumb came to rest upon a song from several years ago, maybe not even known to the younger skater at all.  It was one that Victor would sometimes hear in the clubs, and in which the lyrics spoke to him in a way that made him want to down more shots.   Vodka always helped him to dismiss the emotions the lyrics evoked so he could focus only on the sultry rhythm of it and the vaguely Latin flair.

 

Could a dance to this song with Yuuri Katsuki change that?  Could the lyrics to it be his own voice so he didn’t have to talk to him, but be enough for the younger skater to understand the message?  

 

He decided it could be a test.  If he still felt the bitterness toward the lyrics and only enjoyed the more erotic parts of the music with Yuuri, then he knew those flutters of gut and intakes of breath weren’t signifying anything beyond attraction and lust.  But if it did speak to him some other way, if the words conveyed something that turned real…

 

Well.

 

He’d just have to think about that then, right?

 

Victor made his selection and asked the DJ to play the song with hopes that the new tune would inspire Yuuri Katsuki to move on his own, and then, maybe, hopefully, Victor could join him in dance.

 

His heart was pounding again.  Was he… _ nervous _ ?  Wow.  Too late now; the song started and he made his way over to the man, who was getting more encouragement from the others to dance for them some more.  He started moving to the beat, clapping his hands a little as the lyrics started. 

 

_ “When you're gonna stop breaking my heart? _

_ I don't wanna be another one _

_ Paying for the things I never done _

_ Don't let go, don't let go to my love” _

 

Well, here goes nothing.  Victor watched the man dance as he started to pick up on the beat.  He stayed behind, just copying the steps, the extensions of arms into half-arabesques and, time to invoke God again, the way his hips rolled with the rhythm.

 

Victor watched each second of Yuuri’s interpretation of the music, his body was singing; Victor committed everything to memory even as he danced behind mimicking the moves.

 

And he hadn’t been noticed yet, but that was more than all right; already it was as though light was shining down upon him, he felt such a rush of creative inspiration that he hadn’t felt in several seasons.  The way Yuuri moved, the way his feet were so light upon the dancefloor, the way he could do rondes des jambes et temps de cuisse; that boy could jump so freely-

 

Wait.

 

He can  _ jump _ .  He  _ can _ .  

 

_ Of course he can! _

 

As the music played, the shock of realization hit Victor like a ton of bricks.  This man can jump. Effortlessly. Beautifully. The moves he was doing could easily translate to the ice for a short program.

 

So why couldn’t he skate the way he danced?

 

Victor’s mind was racing in a sort of mania now as he shared the floor with Katsuki.  He wanted to know who his choreographer was. He wanted to know why Yuuri’s programs were put together in predictable fashion, with maybe subtle homages to his own skating placed here and there, when the man clearly had his own interpretive skills within his very own body and soul?

 

_ “Can I get to your soul? _

_ Can you get to my thought? _

_ Can we promise we won't let go? _

_ All the things that I need _

_ All the things that you need _

_ You can make it feel so real” _

 

He inched closer to the dancer; by no means was he dancing with Yuuri Katsuki yet, but his creativity was suddenly in hyperdrive while watching him, and he felt the familiarity of building out a short program off the ice, of trying out ideas with the music, of experimenting. 

 

Of telling a  _ story _ .  

 

He pulled his own tie on a whim, and the excitement pulsed within his gut again toward the thought that he would definitely like it if Yuuri Katsuki might do that to him someday, to claim him as his own, to steal him away and make him his.  Oh, that story might kill him some day, but what a way to go.

 

_ “Cause you can't deny, you've blown my mind _

_ When I touch your body _

_ I feel I'm losing control _

_ Cause you can't deny, you've blown my mind _

_ When I see you baby _

_ I just don't want to let go _ ”

 

As the lyrics declared, Yuuri Katsuki had really blown his mind.  He didn’t want to let go.

 

Especially now that he was finally noticed.  And there.  _ There _ .  The smile.

 

And then, oh.  _  Oh! _  Victor’s attraction piqued again in earnest:  ‘Are you pretending to be a bull? Well then I’ll whisk off my jacket, and be your toreador.  Come get me, you sexy thing.’

 

Hot fucking damn.   _ ¡Olé! _

 

They moved closer, and then they were touching.  He felt an erotic jolt of electricity within the kinetic motion of the dance, his heart afire.  He was touching him, and Yuuri was smiling, and he was smiling, and what was this feeling, and where was it coming from, and why was it happening?  

 

Pure.  Unadulterated.  Joy.

 

When was the last time he had felt such joy in dancing?   In skating? In life? In a _ lover? _

 

_ “Can I get to your soul? _

_ Can you get to my thought? _

_ Can we promise we won't let go? _

_ All the things that I need _

_ All the things that you need _

_ You can make it feel so real” _

 

And now, Yuuri’s strong dancer’s body was pressed up against his back, and he pushed forward to place his balance on his bent leg, heads touching intimately, eyes locked, and Victor smoothly extended his own leg backward en pointe while Yuuri’s arm curled around him, holding him tightly but with perfect unwavering balance as the lyrics repeated.

 

_ “Cause you can't deny, you've blown my mind _

_ When I touch your body _

_ I feel I'm losing control _

_ Cause you can't deny, you've blown my mind _

_ When I see you baby _

_ I just don't want to let go _ ”

 

It felt...perfect.  And hot. Yes, don’t forget hot.

 

And then perfect and hot became more perfect and hot when they reversed positions and, Dear God if that man wasn’t holding his warm palm to the side of his face and  _ dipping him _ with his other hand securely on his leg to keep them balanced.  He could do that every day for all Victor cared; he’d let himself fall into that embrace and stay there for as long as the younger skater would hold him.  

 

Victor knew he was smiling too, the real one he rarely had reason to show in public.  He knew it was there right along with that gorgeous one which belonged to Yuuri Katsuki;  it was the gift and receipt of sheer mutual adoration he felt in the arms of this beauty on the dance floor.  

 

_ “Can I get to your soul? _

_ Can you get to my thought? _

_ Can we promise we won't let go? _

_ All the things that I need _

_ All the things that you need _

_ You can make it feel so real” _

 

He didn’t want to let go.  He didn’t want to lose that moment, he didn’t want it to end, but he knew the song was almost over, and he knew that Yuuri was drunk, and he knew he was supposed to be hooking up with Chris later, and he knew he was probably going to have regrets about it, and he knew that there was no way he was sharing this precious person with anyone.

 

Wait.

 

How could someone who was so sad and distant before become so precious in the span of a four minute dance?

 

_ “I hate to see you cry _

_ Your smile is a beautiful lie _

_ I hate to see you cry _

_ My love is dying inside  _

_ I can fix all those lies _

_ Oh baby, baby I run, but I'm running to you _

_ You won't see me cry, I'm hiding inside _

_ My heart is in pain but I'm smiling for you _

 

_ Oh baby I'll try to make the things right _

_ I need you more than air when I'm not with you _

_ Please don't ask me why, just kiss me this time _

_ My only dream is about you and I…” _

 

When the song ended and the touch failed to linger as the cheers erupted from the crowd, Victor just stood there mesmerized.  His heart was beating fast within his chest, and he knew it was from much more than the dance.

 

He was totally captivated by Yuuri Katsuki.

 

When Chris saddled up to where he was standing he even jumped.  “I didn’t think you liked that song,” his friend remarked, “when it used to play in the clubs you always ordered four extra shots and drank them all yourself.”

 

Victor shrugged.  “I’ve always liked that music.”

 

“And you always drank to avoid hearing the lyrics, right?”

 

He shrugged again. Damn.  Chris really did know him well. “I guess,” he answered noncommittally, never taking his eyes off Yuuri as he staggered through a line of high-fives from their fellow competitors, notably Mila and Sara again.  

 

“So did you even talk to him?”

 

“No.”

 

“Then you won’t mind if I take your missed opportunity, will you?”

 

Victor snapped his attention to the Swiss skater who had that mischievous look in his eyes that only meant good times and a bit of trouble were ahead.  “What are you planning?” he asked carefully.

 

“You’ll see,” he replied, handing him another flute of Champagne.  “Take this. You’re gonna need it.”

 

Before Victor could protest or ask why, Chris was calling out to Yuuri Katsuki.  “Yuuri! Come here, Darling!”

  
  


The Japanese man turned around; someone had found his glasses for him and his tie was now wrapped around his head and he was giggling like crazy.  “Chrissss~ I haven’t seen you all night!” he slurred, coming over toward them. Victor’s heart skipped a beat because he was right there,  _ right there! _ , focusing his drunken attention only on the Swiss skater and even appearing not to notice that Victor was there at all.

 

“Did you have fun dancing with Victor, Yuuri?”  Chris asked smoothly.

 

God damn it, Chris. 

 

Toward the question, Yuuri finally looked at him and he smiled, saying something excitedly in Japanese that neither he nor Chris understood, but he was happy.  Never in his life had Victor thought a sloppy drunk could be so endearing. “Now, Yuuri,” Chris continued, “do you think you might be up for one more dance battle tonight?”

 

He turned back to Chris and immediately the drunkenness seemed to subside.  “Are you challenging me, Chris?” he said with dead calm.

 

“Absolutely, but I want to raise the stakes a little.  Come here for a minute, Sweetheart.”

 

“Chris,”  Victor began, but the addressed held up his hand and winked, cutting off his protest and pulling Yuuri close to whisper in his ear, holding his hand in front so Victor could not possibly determine what he was saying by reading his lips.  Yuuri whipped his head around to look at Chris, and then he looked at Victor, and then back at Chris before saying in a serious tone, “Yeah. I can do that. But won’t we need-”

 

“Shh,”  Chris chided flirtatiously..  “I’ll take care of what we need, but you’re going to need to lose some of these clothes first.”

 

Before Victor could try and lodge another protest, Chris was pulling Yuuri to him by the waistband of his slacks.  “I’m going to step away for a minute, and I expect that these will be off by the time I get back,” he said with a wink and Yuuri returned it with a devious smile. 

 

“I pick the music though,”  the Japanese man declared.

 

“As you wish, Darling.”  With that pronouncement made, Chris got on his phone and went to the doorway, ostensibly to pick up something from one of his trainers, leaving him alone with Yuuri.

 

“Victor?”

 

“Yes, Yuuri?”  Thank God. He was finally talking to him.  Please, God, let this lead to something great.

 

“Did you like my danshing?  Imma dance all night~.”

 

“I did like your dancing, Yuuri, very much.”  The smile reappeared. He could do this. He could talk to him.  This was amazing. Keep talking, Yuuri.

 

“Victor…?” he repeated, the sound of his name lilting just a bit with his accented English.

 

“Yes, solnyshko?”   

 

Oh.  Why was he using a fucking pet name already?  Thank God it was in Russian, so Yuuri probably had no idea, and, Chris had called him “darling” and “sweetheart” and it didn’t seem to bother him, but he cocked his head, obviously understanding even in his inebriated state that the word was neither Japanese nor was it English.  

 

“What didya call me jus’ now?” 

 

Shit.  Oh well.  Might as well tell the truth.  “Solnyshko. It means ‘sunshine’.”  He swallowed hard, finding his throat parched and needing a sip of his Champagne which he took.  He felt himself smiling nonetheless too in response to Yuuri’s own earnest and happy expression.

 

Yuuri laughed.  “You’re silly!” he exclaimed.

 

Victor exhaled.  Great! “I suppose I am!”  he joked merrily, “I’ve been called that a lot!”

 

“Reallllllyy??!”

 

“Yes! You can call me silly anytime you want, Yuuri!”

 

He was downright jovial as Yuuri reached behind him to take another glass of Champagne handed over by Sara Crispino as she approached.  “Sara! Do you know who I’m  _ talking _ to?!” 

 

“Hi, Yuuri!  Hi, Victor!” the girl responded cheerfully, “I sure do, Yuuri!”  To Victor, she asked, “Are you enjoying yourself tonight?”

 

Yes.  Yes he was.  Now, go away, Pretty-and-Talented-Italian-Skater-Girl.  “Of course I am; our Yuuri is entertaining us beautifully this evening,” he answered in the most congenial way he could muster while Yuuri was now hanging on his elbow and beaming.  Where was someone with a cellphone cam when he needed it, damn it?

 

“Good!  Are you going to dance another one, Yuuri?  Mila and I wanna see more! We bailed on going to the club when you started dancing, so make it worth our while, okay?”

 

“I’m dancing with Chris next and you better stick around.  It’s gonna be a  _ big _ surprise,” he said with that authoritative voice that Victor was growing extremely fond of hearing.  Extremely.

 

“Ooooh!”  the girl squealed.  “I’m gonna let Mila know, ‘kay?  Bye-bye! Knock ‘em dead!”

 

A surprise.  With Chris. Who was coming back to them and taking off his shirt. No.  Victor was not going to give him over to the dance battle just yet. “Yuu~~~ri,”  he said in his most seductive tone, leaning over to the younger skater’s ear, seeing a charming blush appear on his cheeks that spread like wildfire to his ears and even down to his gracefully biteable neck,  “What’s this about a surprise, hmmm?”

 

“Uuuuhhhh….wellll...um…-”

 

“Yuuuu~~~ri, did you know that I  _ love _ surprises?”  he cooed, drinking up the Japanese man’s cute and flustered reaction like a dying man finding an oasis of water in a desert. 

 

Yuuri pulled away and looked at him directly in the eye, his glasses slightly askew but his own eyes were sparkling.  “I’m gonna surprise you like crazy!”

 

Victor laughed heartily.  “You already have, but I can’t wait to see!”

 

By this time, Chris had rejoined them and Yuuri suddenly remembered that he was supposed to be taking off his pants.  He shucked them down to his ankles, and there were a couple of very enthusiastic hollers from the crowd; even the DJ got into the act, saying over the microphone:  “Could this be the start of Round Three? Let’s hear it, Everybody! Do you want Round Three?!?!?!”

 

The room cheered and that was when Victor saw it.  

 

A pole.  

 

What was a  _ stripper pole _ doing at the fucking skating banquet?!

 

Was Yuuri Katsuki going to  _ pole dance _ ?!  With  _ Chris _ ?!  Or, would it be just Chris, and Yuuri dancing around?!  He didn’t know! What the hell was happening?!

 

He shot a look to Chris who just winked and smirked toward his obvious disbelief, but the next thing he knew, Yuuri had his pants and shoes off, his shirt unbuttoned, and he suddenly threw his arms around Victor’s neck and started to grind on him for all he was worth.  Victor was not expecting that, not in front of everyone, not sloppy and ill-placed like this, not with fucking Yuri Plisetsky behind him making gagging noises with what was sure to be a horrified expression on his face. He couldn’t even begin to react before Yuuri took a breath.

 

“Bic-tor-uu~!  My family owns a hot springs resort.  Please come! If I win this dance battle, you’ll be my coach, right?”

 

What?!

 

The Japanese man jumped into him a little more, hips swaying and Victor felt frozen in place.  Was this the surprise? Him asking that? And the way his name sounded with that drunkenly adorable accent, and with the crowd looking on, and with those eyes glittering behind the cute glasses, and with the abhorrent tie around his head-

 

“Be my coach, Bic-tor-uu~~~be my coach!!”

 

He gasped.  

 

Oh.  God.

 

Oh god oh god oh god oh god….he was never letting this man go.

 

Ever.

 

_ Never _ .

 

He did not believe it to be even within the realm of the possible to fall in love in an instant, but he thought it just happened anyway.

 

He was stunned speechless, and he looked to Chris to help him out, but the man just had an amused expression on his face until their eyes met and it turned into something a tad less than.  “C-Chris?” he eked out and his friend’s expression relaxed again. 

 

“Yuuri, Darling,  we’re all ready for you to pick the music for our battle!”

 

With that, the hands and the hot body left him and he heard a “Fucking gross” spat out from Little Yuri as Chris took the tie from Yuuri’s head and replaced it loosely around his neck.  Once that was accomplished, another bottle of Champagne was produced, and Yuuri and Chris both took healthy swigs from the bottle before placing it on the floor near the pole. Victor watched as the pair conferred a bit more in a very conspiratorial fashion, and Yuuri trotted over to get a chair and placed it directly in front of the pole with the chair back toward the pole and the seat toward the onlookers.  He seemed to be carefully placing it, as if taking note of the distance before taking off his glasses and placing them on the nearest table.

 

What the holy hell was that sexy thing up to, and, if there really is a God, please do not let his cell phone battery die before he got a video of whatever this was going to be.  For good measure, he pretty much demanded that Yuri Plisetsky take photos, and he could hear Sara and Mila buzzing that they were going to take videos. He’d get them all. He wanted them all, even though he had no clue what was going to occur.  He couldn’t take his eyes off the Japanese man as he went back to Chris and sort of made a motion with his hand to describe what he was going to do, and Chris laughed and slapped him on the ass for his trouble.

 

God damn it Chris.  

 

His phone buzzed and he thumbed open the text.  “Jealous?? <3”

 

“What the hell are you planning?”  Send.

 

Buzz.  “Pull up a chair and enjoy the view, cheri.”

 

Yuuri headed back to the DJ booth and the group was gathering around and grabbing chairs to seat themselves for whatever this show was going to be.  Victor likewise pulled up a chair, watched the Japanese man as he directed the DJ to his phone once again, and he sat down next to Mila Babicheva and Sara Crispino who were giggling and taking selfies and chatting excitedly about Chris being shirtless and now pantless, and Yuuri in those cute boy shorts with his shirt undone and-

 

“Hey, Everyone!”  

 

What?!

 

That boy had taken the microphone from a very startled looking DJ and everyone responded with cheers and shouts of his name.

 

“I hope you don’t mind, but we’re gonna take it real old school with the music!”

 

More cheers; Victor couldn’t help but to join in.  The room felt electric, Chris was simply shaking his head and laughing in his nearly-nude glory, and Yuuri was smiling from ear to ear before he put on one of the most sultry looks Victor had ever seen on any man.

 

“I’m going to  _ win _ .”

 

Wow~!

 

Victor took a brief millisecond to be concerned that maybe his 14-year old junior champion should not be watching something that was clearly not for the faint of heart and not for kids, but Victor needed those pictures, damn it.  Well, time to grow up, he supposed, and, given the stunned-slash-horrified-slash-pissed-off expression on the blonde teenager, the boy wasn’t going to leave just because he was told to do so. Fuck it. Let him be scarred by Chris wearing nothing but black bikini underwear.  There’s the door, kitten, take your leave if you want.

 

Victor had much more important things on his mind like:  “What was Yuuri  _ doing _ ?!”  when he skipped down from the DJ booth and proceeded to straddle the chair with his back to the crowd, then put his legs up on the back of the chair and arched his back until his hair kissed the floor.  And he winked at the crowd who became a unified voice of screaming and squealing until Yuuri made to quick movements with his leg en pointe and the music started.

 

_ “Hit it!” _

 

Oh, yes, Chris was right:  he’d hit that.

 

An old school beat signaled Yuuri into a split as he raised himself up with the strength of his core and with one hand barely holding the chair for support, and turned to the crowd fluidly with one leg beautifully extended as he swung it over the chair back and smiled devilishly at the entire room before facing the chair back again and giving his audience an amazing view of his pert little ass in those goddamn boy shorts that Victor never had a thing for in the past but  _ definitely _ had a thing for now.  

 

He was doing all kinds of inappropriate things to that chair, things Victor wouldn’t mind having done on his fucking  _ lap _ , things that made his cheeks heat more and his blood immediately surge netherward where he hoped and prayed that sitting would help to cover what he was sure to be inevitable if that man kept making love to that fucking chair that didn’t have his lap in it.  

 

Before Victor could even process all of that, Yuuri hopped up to stand in a gorgeous arabesque. As the intro continued with “Na, na na na nah, na na na nah, na-na nah, na-na, nah.  Na-na na nah!” mixed between record scratching sounds, he did some sexy turns of hip and blew the crowd a kiss that Victor, okay, well, maybe this was his wishful thinking, or his wishful lusting, but he thought the kiss might have been sort of aimed at him, but maybe not, but definitely in his direction, right?, or maybe because he was sitting near Sara?, but, but but-.

 

Yuuri literally  _ walked  _ **_up_ ** _ the chair!,   _ and took the pole, the chair falling perfectly in line as his foot left the top of the back of it right in time to the lyrics “Here comes the Hotstepper!”

 

Victor was beyond surprised; he was _fucking._ _Stunned_.

 

Holy hell.  Holy fuck.

 

Holy...was he dead?  Was this death? Had Heaven been real all this time?

 

Yuuri Katsuki was doing things with that pole that made Victor’s cheeks flame and his heart race, and his brow sweat with the erotic beat of the song, and he never remembered old school music being like  _ this,  _ and how fast could he acquire this music to his playlist?

 

The girls were practically dying along with him and the guys were whistling, even  _ Chris  _ who was supposed to compete with this somehow.  And Yuri Plisetsky was in shell-shocked silence next to him, but,  _ thankfully, _ snapping a ridiculous amount of pictures.  Yuuri Katsuki's legs with those killer thighs; there was truth in this song when the lyric repeated “Murderer!” in the background vocal after every phrase:  Victor was definitely sure the man attached to those thighs was a murderer, and he was most definitely the happiest murder victim ever to die by his thighs because Death by Thighs was now  _ most definitely a thing. _

 

Yuuri stretched, twisted, and climbed the pole like a professional.  Was he a professional? Where did he  _ learn _ this?  Did Chris know all along that  _ bastard _ ?!  Thought-mania set in, and Victor had to physically close his mouth by swallowing the rest of his Champagne because he actually felt like he might start literally drooling.

 

And then Yuuri spiraled down the pole into a split on the floor which made the crowd roar again, and tipped his hand to Chris who jumped onto the now-vacant pole like a fish taking to water as Yuuri rose from the split to grab the bottle of Champ and drink as Chris demonstrated his own professional-level skill with pole dancing.  

 

Chris turned his body into a sinewy display of muscle and mature eroticism and incredible balance, and Yuuri helped the sex factor along by handing him the bottle of Champ which Chris waved with his free hand so the bubbly trailed out from the open bottle with a flourish to follow his amazing physique.  

 

Yes, this had to be death.   Chris was always sexy and hot; Victor was familiar enough with his body to be sure, but the addition of the pole, and of the Champ, and then, oh God!   _ Yuuri! _

 

Yuuri took the bottle back down and shed his shirt in a flash as he hopped up with Chris, balancing the larger man with his thighs, his foot hooked around Chris’s leg and, oh wow, when could Victor get Yuuri to hook his foot around his own leg, and oh my, oh  _ my _ , the dip he shared with the man on the dance floor earlier just got smacked down as Yuuri dipped Chris on the pole and Chris did his part by arching as far back as he could go.  

 

They twisted and turned together, hands all over each other.  God  _ damn it _ Chris.  This was definitely making it difficult not to cave and drag Yuuri Katsuki back to the room with them, or, maybe he’d just tell Yuri Plisetsky to keep his big mouth shut and go back to Yuuri’s room with that sexy thing.  Chris was definitely pulling out all the stops; Victor was sure he must have watched his own dance with the Japanese skater to see that Victor had been blown away and filled with joy. Maybe he was trying not only to suggest that they ask Yuuri to play with them later, but testing him to see if he still wanted to play with Chris later at all.

 

Victor was giving this thought some brain cells when a sight worthy of the best of any gay man’s dreams reached his eyes and he felt his jaw drop to the floor.  Chris did an inverted split and Yuuri Katsuki was  _ standing on Chris’s thighs _ !, dumping Champagne from the bottle onto the floor with a look that plainly said he was in charge.   Oh God. Victor immediately went from thinking about a little drunk fun with Chris and Yuuri together to plain  _ wanting _ for that hottie just to demand to wreck him instead.   He’d agree in a heartbeat.

 

Oh, he had to be dead,  “Here Lies Victor Nikiforov” dead.  He was  _ surely dead _ by now as he heard the squeals of the girls and the “Holy Shit!”s from the guys, and he couldn’t even remember how to speak because he was too busy trying to figure out how fast he could get that man back to his room to stand on  _ his  _ thighs and, he thought,  ‘Sorry,  _ not sorry _ , Chris; your plan to make me hot, bothered, and jealous enough to have wild drunken sex with you has worked too well in two out of three of those things’.  The wild drunken sex with Chris part had totally backfired; he wanted to have wild drunken sex with Yuuri Katsuki, and he hoped to God Yuuri would want the same.

 

After that finale both men dismounted from the pole, laughing arm in arm and trading the remains of the Champagne bottle back and forth between them as the crowd swarmed them.  Victor was still seated in the chair, dumbstruck, and trying to will his body to calm down until Yuri Plisetsky broke the reverie.

 

“Fucking  _ gross _ !  I can’t believe you made me take pictures of that shit you fucking pervert!”

 

Well that certainly helped to allay his desire a little.  The kid probably couldn’t help it; he’d probably been called a pervert or other slurs himself from brats his own age for being a figure skater before Yakov scouted him and he came to live in St. Petersburg with the others.  Victor let it pass half-way; it wasn’t easy sometimes, being a male figure skater in Russia, and this, Victor knew better than anyone. But, he couldn’t resist pushing the teenager’s buttons a bit anyway; maturity was overrated sometimes.

 

Victor turned in his chair to face the surly blonde, a finger to his lips and his head cocked to one side.  “Hmmm? I don’t recall you saying ‘no’. Did I forget?” His smartass comment caused a dusting of pink to spread from the boy’s cheeks all the way to his ears.  “I think you rather enjoyed that,” he continued, “though, maybe I should not have let you stay. That clearly wasn’t meant for the eyes of  _ children.” _

 

“Shut up.”

 

“My bad.  You can tell Yakov if you wish and he’ll have Georgi watch over you from now on, I’m sure.”

 

“Shut  _ up! _  I’m over it.  Let’s go.”

 

The crowd was begging for Yuuri and Chris to continue, but Victor could see that the alcohol was starting to catch up to the Japanese man; Chris was, sort of, helping him get his pants and shirt back on and they gave up trying to button his shirt because Yuuri kept laughing whenever Chris touched him to fumble with the buttons even as he swayed while standing in place. He just learned another fun fact:  Yuuri Katsuki was ticklish. Well, when he wasn’t dancing at least. Duly noted.

 

His pants were on, zipped but not buttoned, and his shirt hung open and his tie hung slack upon his neck, like a naughty arrow pointing down toward those unbuttoned pants.  God. Fucking boy shorts. Did they look that good on everyone? Victor didn’t think so. Aside from Chris, he couldn’t remember another skater that he’d been this attracted to, and, with Chris, it certainly had not been immediate.  Fuck. There was no way he was walking away, not when he’d had a taste of happiness and inspiration not felt in years; the sexual attraction was just a very exciting special bonus. “I’m not leaving quite yet. Give me five minutes,” he replied to little Yuri who, predictably, called him an asshole as he rose from his chair.

 

Before he even made three steps Yuuri was walking toward him with purpose.  “Bictoru~! Did you see?”

 

He was squinting because his glasses had not yet been retrieved and replaced upon his adorable little nose, but that didn’t stop Victor’s heart from speeding up just a bit because Yuuri had sought him out right after the dance.  And what an adorably hopeful expression he had! “Of course I did, Yuuri! I couldn’t take my eyes off you!” The hopeful expression turned into that precious smile, and then that precious smile turned into a look of such intensity that snapped Victor right back to the reality that he had just witnessed this man doing the hottest dancing he’d ever seen.  

 

The next thing he knew, the DJ had started to play the song again and Yuuri Katsuki reached out and grabbed him by the tie, like his prayer from their earlier dance had been answered. Their foreheads were suddenly less than an inch apart, and Victor could see the shine in Yuuri’s eyes, the deep brown with a hint of caramel, with intensity that made them almost shimmer like the most infinite of dark pools under moonlight.  The crowd was making catcalls and whistles and the girls were screaming again, but Yuuri neither seemed to notice nor care. “Please dance with me again, Victor.”

 

It wasn’t a question.  It was a command, given gently, but with no opportunity to refuse, and, once again, the haze of the alcohol seemed to vacate whenever he prepared for a dance.  

 

“Is this another dance battle, Yuuri?”

 

“No.  This is because I  _ won _ ,”  came the reply along with a cheeky smirk as he released the grip from the tie and traded it for a firm grip to the small of his back.  “Lose the jacket.”

 

Wow~!

 

“Of course, moi horoshiy,” was the obvious reply, because, God, why wouldn’t he want to take an order like that?   He removed the jacket and rolled up his sleeves again, not caring that the whistles continued even as everyone started to dance with each other to the old school music which will forever be etched into Victor’s memory as the “Yuuri and Chris Pole Dance”  song. Everyone was getting into it, it seemed; the DJ had obviously taken notice of the energy and put it on a loop to extend the merriment for the entire room. But Victor only had eyes for Yuuri, and Yuuri hadn’t taken his eyes off him either. The hand reappeared, again encircling his waist and coming to rest at the small of his back as Yuuri pulled him closer to his body and  those dangerously unbuttoned pants. Before he realized it, their legs were slotted together with Yuuri’s thigh in between his as they swayed to the beat, hips twisting and touching in something flirty but not quite dirty, but definitely sensual, and God this man was so fucking seductive. Victor mimicked Yuuri’s grip so they moved together with a hand at each other’s backs, their other hands just down at heel.  Finally, Victor couldn’t resist any further and leaned into Yuuri’s ear, “You’re amazing, Yuuri. Is it okay if I tell you something else?”

 

He turned his head when he saw Yuuri was also moving to respond for his ear alone.  “Yeah…”

 

Here was his chance.  Time to dial up the flirting a bit.  “You looked  _ very _ sexy up there, Yuu~~ri.  Where did you learn to dance like that, hmmm?”  He pulled back a little seeing a faint blush cross the beautiful man’s cheeks and the half smile-smirk grace the pink line of his lips.  He wasn’t saying anything, so Victor leaned into his ear again. “Won’t you tell me? I want to know, solnyshko.”

 

He pulled back and they traded again, cheeks brushing when they passed to the other side of each other’s faces, Yuuri’s champagne sweetened breath hot near his ear sending sparks of erotic energy right down Victor’s body to where their lower halves remained connected by the knot of thighs through the slow sway of their hips with the bass of the song.  “I learned it in Detroit on a dare. A double dare. You can’t back down from a double dare, Silly~.”

 

Oh, yeah?   That bit of information could be useful.  “Really?” he replied simply, “you never back down from a dare, then Yuuri?”

 

“A  _ double _ dare,” Yuuri corrected with a little giggle, a bit of the happy drunk appearing for a split second before it again disappeared into that sultry look that Victor was getting hooked on  faster than an addict to the most potent of drugs. “Are you going to try and dare me to do something, Victor?”

 

Oh, God.  

 

“Do you want me to?”

 

Yuuri’s brow furrowed into the cutest pose of drunken consideration. “Depends.  Chriss~ said Viic-tor~~ wanted to ask me something.”

 

Damn it, Chris.

 

“He did, did he?”  Victor purred smoothly, “And, did he say what that something was?”

 

“No...he said everything was up to Bic-to-ru~.”

 

Well then.  

 

By then the music had changed to another sultry remix that he had heard recently in a club in St. Petersburg and immediately liked; the DJ had done a pretty good job of mixing songs from many different countries, but this was Russia, so naturally there would be plenty of Russian music.  Yuuri changed the pace of his movements slightly, but they remained connected and kept dancing. “If it’s up to me, then let’s leave after this dance.” There. He said it. He thought his heart was about to jump in his throat when Yuuri smiled in response.

 

“Okay.  Where are we gonna go?”

 

Oh God.  Did he really have to spell it out?  Yuuri was still really,  _ really _ , drunk.  He should just take him back to his room with maybe a little more flirting and maybe a kiss and just leave him his phone number.  But, that was so difficult to think about with one of those killer thighs between his legs; it was like the angel on his shoulder was telling him to just walk the man back to his room and put him to bed, and the devil on his other shoulder was telling him to take Yuuri back to his room and bed him in whatever way Yuuri would let him do it. 

 

But he didn’t want to have any regrets; he already knew that sleeping with Chris would probably lead to plenty, and he’d been ready to accept that.   With Yuuri, however, it was different somehow. Sure, he was hot as fuck, and Victor really,  _ really _ wanted to sleep with him, but some other feeling was going along for the ride too; it was as though this had the potential for something much more than a one night stand.  

 

He didn’t want this to be a one night stand.  

 

Not after feeling such an overwhelming sense of...love?, for this person right from the moment he asked him to visit his parent’s resort and become his  _ coach _ of all things. Yuuri deserved better than that.  Yuuri probably deserved better than him.

 

Even if Yuuri had moments where an acute near-sobriety showed through, the numbers didn’t lie:  sixteen glasses of champagne plus probably another third of a bottle or so between dances, and sips from other glasses as well.  He was tanked. But he was so hot. Shit. 

 

“Bictoru~~?”

 

“Yuuri, you’ve had a lot to drink tonight….”

 

“I’m from Kyushu.  What’s your point?”  the younger skater challenged with another little laugh.  Victor didn’t get why that made a difference, but he went with it.

 

“Maybe I should walk you to your room so you can rest.”

 

Was it Victor’s imagination, or was the hand on his back gripping him more firmly?  He was trying to sort that out when that sexy thing grabbed his tie again. When Victor looked up, expecting to see that cute little smile-smirk, he was startled by the look of panic that had flooded the man’s brown eyes.  “Y-you...don’t want to dance with me anymore, Victor?” he whispered. No. No! Victor did not want to see the defeated look from the start of the evening on the face of this man ever again, not when he’d been having so much fun, and was so worked up, and fuck it.  Yuuri was drunk, but he wasn’t incoherent. Fine.  _ Fine! _

 

“No, of course I do, Yuuri!”  Victor quickly answered, heart racing and moving his free hand to the side of the younger man’s cheek, feeling him lean into it just barely as he closed his eyes.  “I’d love to dance with you all night, maybe every night, maybe all the nights!”

 

Yuuri’s look softened again and he opened his eyes and hopped a little to throw his arms around Victor’s neck, burying his face in his chest.  “It...doesn’t have to be all the nights…,” Yuuri said quietly, his voice barely audible, “...but maybe...it can be tonight…”

 

“Yuuri-”

 

The man suddenly pulled away, a firm grip on Victor’s upper arms with that look of determination appearing across his face again.  “One more drink. Then we’re leaving,” he declared evenly, and Victor’s head was spinning more from the apparent roller-coaster that was Yuuri’s emotions than from his own alcohol consumption, though he was pleasantly buzzed too.  It gave him a bit of pause though; clearly he didn’t know this man at all. But, his body was overriding his brain every time Yuuri laid down one of his little “orders”. So hot.

 

As if on cue, Chris appeared with a final flute of Champagne for each of them before the hotel staff finished clearing everything away to close the evening.   “Are we having fun, you two?”

 

Yuuri’s face shifted from Victor to Chris and he smiled.  “Chrisss~  _ we _ had fun, right?”

 

“We sure did, Yuuri Darling.”

 

“I won, right?  You said so.”

 

Chris put his free hand over his heart.  “Yes, I did say that. I humbly bow to your mad stripper skills, Sweetheart.”

 

Yuuri laughed and Victor just shook his head because the younger man had pulled him back to their dancing position, that goddamn thigh between his legs again and a soft grind of hip that Victor could not help but to reciprocate when Yuuri started to move even as he drank down his Champagne. Suddenly Victor decided he was a fan of Britney Spears now too, if her songs made Yuuri move like that while drinking Champ.  He made a mental note to add “3” to his playlist. God, Yuuri was so sexy as he moved, his hand never leaving Victor’s back and his thigh rubbing all the right places as he twisted his hips.

 

“My, my, Victor, whatever shall we  _ do _ with this gorgeous thing?”

 

“Chris-”

 

“Ah, well, I suppose this was inevitable,”  Chris interrupted dramatically.

 

“What do you mean by that?”  Victor queried with a suspicious air, or as suspicious as was possible with Yuuri’s thigh still wedged in between his legs.  Just how well did Chris actually know Yuuri really? Had that sonofabitch been withholding vital information that Victor probably needed?   

 

“Oh I merely meant that it was inevitable that our precious Yuuri here would dance us all into the ground,  mon ami.”

 

Victor studied his friend who had that mischievous glint in his eyes, shaded with maybe a hint of disappointment.  Oh well; he figured out that Victor didn’t want to share, at least this time anyway. If he played his cards right, maybe he could find out eventually if Yuuri might be into sharing, or watching, or whatever, but not now.  All he wanted to do was get this drunk sexy thing out of there before Chris changed his mind about allowing it to happen without him. “I suppose so. Are you okay with this?” he asked as Yuuri stopped moving and looked from one of them to the other.  

 

“He said I won, Victor,” Yuuri affirmed sternly.  “We’re leaving, right?”

 

Chris emitted a low whistle of appreciation.  “Yuuri, my Darling, do not fear. I won’t take your Victor away.   But if you get bored with him, you better hit me up on my Insta.” Before Victor’s face fully formed a scowl in response to the comment,  Chris was leaning into his ear, “I think you owe me one, mon ami. A big one.”

 

Yeah.  He did.  God Bless Chris.

 

Of course, Yuri Plisetsky chose just that moment to call out to him:  “Yo! Geezer, let’s  _ go _ already!”

 

“Ah, Princess, there you are,”  Chris quipped.

 

“I’m not talking to you,”  Yuri spat, “I’m talking to  _ that _ Geezer.  Come on, Victor. I’m done waiting for you.”

 

Before Victor could start to explain to Yuuri that he had to get the junior medalist back to his room, Chris swiftly banked himself another “IOU”.  “Victor, why don’t I take Yuri back to your room, yes? I’m sure he doesn’t want to accompany you while you walk our Darling back to his.”

 

“Victor!”  Yuri protested in a loud complaint.  “Don’t ditch me with  _ him _ ,” he groaned, throwing a thumb to point in Chris’s direction.  “Just tear yourself away from these two freaks and take me back!”

 

Victor made a quick glance to Chris then to little Yuri, then finally his gaze rested on Yuuri who had an amused and slightly smug looking expression on his face as he looked upon the other person who shared his name.  “Excuse me for a moment, Yuuri? Okay? I’ll be right back.”

 

Yuuri nodded and finished the last sip of Champagne from his glass and released him from their dancer’s embrace even though the music had stopped several minutes ago.  Victor put his hand on Chris’s shoulder and squeezed. “You’ll take little Yuri back, right?” he asked quietly.

 

“Yeah.  That’s two you owe me now.”

 

Victor nodded and shifted his attention to Yuri Plisetsky, speaking to him in Russian.   “Please go back to the room, and I will be back later.”

 

“Yeah right,” the boy retorted hotly in English,  “You’ll be gone all night fu-”

 

“Aaaand, we really must be going,”  Chris hurriedly supplied in interruption, grabbing hold of the collar of Yuri Plisetsky’s rumpled suit jacket as though he was carrying a kitten by the scruff of the neck.  “Adieu, Yuuri, take good care of Victor, oui?”

 

“O-okay…”

 

To Victor, Chris winked and said in French, “Call me in the morning, cheri.  That’s a  _ demand _ and not a request.”

 

Victor felt a smile drift across his lips.  “Merci, Chris.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song Credits:  
> V&Y dance  
> Edward Maya feat. Vika Jigulina - Stereo Love  
> C&Y dance  
> Ini Kamoze - Here Comes the Hotstepper  
> other songs  
> Lx24 - Yголек (Coal)  
> Britney Spears - 3
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and thanks for all the subs, kudos and bookmarks. Wow~ I'm happy and humbled! I hope you continue to enjoy my little fanverse. It's been a lot of fun writing in this fandom. I hope that if you enjoyed this silly fic that you will visit me again for my next foray into the love and goodness that is YOI. <3  
> ~C


	7. Chapter Seven

Once the odd pair that was Chris and Yuri Plisetsky left the room, and the rest of the crowd had thinned, Mila and Sara sent a final cheerful wave to Yuuri which he happily returned even as he swayed where he stood.  He ended up stumbling forward until Victor shot out an arm to prevent him from falling, eliciting a few giggles until he righted himself. “Now, solnyshko, do you remember what your room number is?”

 

“Yeah, 405.”

 

“Okay; let’s get you back there.”

 

Yuuri walked over to a table where someone had kindly placed his phone, glasses, and suit jacket, and he he fished a small wallet and his phone from a pocket.   After a couple of clumsy seconds flipping through the contents of the wallet, he produced the keycard and carefully slipped it into a more reachable compartment before replacing both and threading his arms through the sleeves of that ridiculous sport coat Victor wanted to fucking burn.  Maybe he could buy him something soon, something more fitting, both literally and figuratively for someone who was so much more beautiful than that treachery against fashion ever could hope to be. They started to head toward the exit of the banquet hall when Yuuri stopped short. “What is it, Yuuri?”

 

He looked up and smiled. “I was just thinking that I’ve never had so much fun at one of these things.  I almost don’t want to walk out the door.”

 

Victor felt his lips curl into a smile too.  “Don’t worry, Yuuri, you’ll have many more fun banquets to attend, I’m sure.  I hope I can attend another one with you very soon. Come, now, let’s go.”

 

“Hm.”

 

Okay, so “hm” was not quite the answer Victor was expecting.  For a split second, a cloud seemed to cross over the younger man’s expression but it passed almost before it arrived and Yuuri was walking unsteadily toward him once again.  “Here; walk with me,” Victor said quietly, placing his arm around the younger skater. He was warm and seemed to fit perfectly alongside him, as if he was made to be there. He looked down and saw the look of contentment he was hoping to see.

 

As they walked, Yuuri put his own arm at the small of Victor’s back again as they neared the elevator.  “Bictoru…?” God that accent was driving him crazy.

 

“What, Yuuri?”

 

“I...thank you.”

 

What?  He really hadn’t done anything worthy of thanks.  On the contrary, he was the one who should be thanking this amazing person who had sparked a flame within his neglected heart.  “Oh, I think you have it backwards, malysh. I should be thanking you for being so amazing.”

 

They reached the elevator with a little staggering and a little giggling.  Victor pressed the call button and waited for the car to descend. 

 

“Victor…”

 

“Yes, Yuuri?”

 

“I am really glad I danced with you.  I danced with you, right?”

 

Victor laughed a little.  Yuuri was still so drunk. Oh well.   “You did, twice, and I loved every second of it.”

 

The elevator arrived with a soft “ding” and the doors parted.   “Open sesame!” Yuuri declared, making a motion with his hands as if he was physically spreading the doors apart.  Victor decided to play along, “Okay, Ali Baba! Watch out for the 40 thieves!” he chirped merrily as Yuuri giggled and dramatically giant-stepped into the elevator before the doors closed again, the gesture made as though the small gap between it and the corridor was a deep chasm in a canyon.  He pressed the button for the fourth floor and Victor mimicked the silliness, loving the sparkle he was seeing even from behind Yuuri’s glasses. If only he’d just get some damn gel in that hair and slick it back. Before Victor realized what he was doing, he was running his fingers through Yuuri’s bangs, pushing them back and away from his forehead.  “Oh,” he said sheepishly when he realized Yuuri was staring at him wide-eyed, playful laughter immediately gone. “Sorry, I... just wanted to see more of your face…”

 

He started to remove his hand when Yuuri firmly grasped his wrist, preventing him from extracting his fingers from the black strands.  He said nothing, but he had a look in his eyes that showed surprise and...want. “Don’t.”

 

“‘Don’t what?”  Victor whispered.

 

The next thing he knew, Yuuri reached his free hand out and put it in front of the button panel, his palm spread wide and hovering over the buttons, but never wavering in his gaze.  “Do you?”

 

What the hell was he talking about?!  Did he  _ what?! _

 

“What, Yuuri?” he breathed as he felt his eyes widen in anticipation.

 

“Do you double dare me, Victor?”

 

Oh God.  

 

Victor felt the blood drain from his face and surge to his groin under Yuuri’s heated stare.

 

“We’re almost at the fourth floor, right? So do you daburu dare me, Bic-to-ru~?” he asked again, this time with that little smile-smirk and a flirty-slurred tone to match.  Oh man. Fuck it.

 

“I double dare you,” he said in the most serious tone he could muster.

 

“Your fault.”  

 

With that, Yuuri slammed the emergency stop button and the elevator shuddered between the third and fourth floors.  Holy hell. 

 

“Yuu-”

 

Before he could get the name out, that little hottie pushed him back up against the rear of the elevator car, a hand on either side of him caging him.  So fucking hot. “I told you I don’t back down from a double dare.”

 

“Y-yes, you did,” he stammered out. God he wanted to kiss him.  God he wanted to be kissed by him. 

 

“We probably have about five minutes before they respond to the alarm, don’t ya think?”

 

Victor nodded. 

 

“I want to spend that five minutes with you, Victor.  I may never have another chance like this again, so, give me five minutes…”

 

Huh?  _ Five minutes? _  What was this guy thinking? Victor was pretty sure he made it obvious that he was interested.   _ Very _ interested.  Yuuri wasn’t making sense. Wasn’t Victor himself the one pinned against the wall?  He wasn’t going  _ anywhere _ in this situation.  

 

Oh.  Sixteen plus glasses of Champagne.  Drunk. Okay.

 

“Yuuri, of course we will have more than five minutes; we have the rest of the night, if you want, we can have other nights, if you want, we can-”

 

He was silenced by an index finger to his lips before Yuuri returned his hand to the wall.  “Let me have this...before I lose my nerve and can’t have it anymore…”

 

The next thing Victor felt was that lithe body pressed against him, stomachs touching with each expansion of their now rapid breaths, the alarm buzzing away, and the courtesy phone now ringing, and Victor forgot to care about cameras, forgot to care about anything but Yuuri.  How could he care about alarms and phones and security cams? Not when Yuuri had removed one of his hands from the wall again and placed it against the side of his face in a touch so feather-light that Victor wasn’t completely sure it was there. Fingertips pressed into the side of his face, tentatively, then with more assuredness.  “B-bictoru,” he whispered, “don’t forget that you double dared me. Your fault.”

 

“Yuuri?”

 

He leaned up and their lips touched in the lightest of kisses, as though Yuuri must have thought he was kissing a desert mirage from within the cave of the forty thieves.  For Victor, it only reignited the fire that was set hours earlier, the inspiration, the passion, the everything he’d neglected, the everything he may have once had and lost, life, love, everything.   _ Everything. _  He held the kiss, could feel Yuuri’s lips shaking a little, could feel Yuuri’s body shudder slightly.  Victor raised a hand to the man’s hip to steady him and to bring him closer into firmer contact. Yuuri suddenly broke the kiss and pulled his body away, bent at the waist and head down, hands braced against the wall again, almost as though he was stretching for a warm up, breathing deliberately.  Was he... _ embarrassed?!  _  Oh hell no.

 

Victor was not going to let Yuuri’s precious “five minutes” go.  If that meant he had to take charge of the situation, so be it. The buzzing of the alarm finally stopped, but the phone kept ringing.  Suddenly exasperated by the sound, he deftly pulled Yuuri back up and into a hug tight against his chest. “Stay right there,” he directed softly into his hair as he reached behind the younger man and yanked that phone receiver from its cradle and charmed his way out of the wrath of the scolding voice on the other end as best he could, threw a few insincere apologies and slammed the phone back down and pressed the “resume” button on the panel.  “Give me your room key, Yuuri.”

 

“Hm.”

 

From within the embrace, Yuuri did as he was told and pulled the card out of his wallet.  When he looked up to give it to him, Victor took it and then leaned in for another kiss, pressing his closed lips firmly onto the wide-eyed man before him just as the doors opened to a couple of very stern-looking Russian security guards.  He broke the kiss immediately; Yuuri looked like he was about to drop dead where he stood from shock. Quick. Think fast, Nikiforov. 

 

“Hi~!”  he gushed cheerfully as he dragged Yuuri into the corridor, throwing on his most adorably fake media smile, even though, clearly, these fellows weren’t buying it as they blocked their path.   Oh well, in for a penny, in for a pound. He’d been in way worse situations with Chris. This was nothing. 

 

“Thank you  _ soooo _ much! We  _ seriously _ don’t know what just happened in there!” he gasped dramatically,   “We were in there minding our own business and then boom! Stuck! God, we thought we were experiencing our last moments on  _ Earth _ !  What would  _ you _ do in that situation?  Of  _ course  _ you would  _ kiss _ that other last person on Earth!”  The two guards looked too shell-shocked by his rambling English antics even to retort; obviously they had not been sufficiently briefed as to what Victor Nikiforov was capable of when it came to making mischief and then getting out of said mischief.    He easily breezed past them, Yuuri in tow by the hand and almost stumbling but keeping up all the same. “Thank you!” he called back over his shoulder, not caring about the noise, just acting way more drunk than he actually was. “Sorry for the trouble!  Maybe we shouldn’t drink so much next time, right, Yuu~~~ri? We’ll be good for the rest of the night we promise! Do you want an autograph? No? Okay, that’s fine too! Great! Bye~~!”

 

He quickly ushered Yuuri down the remainder of the hall, ignoring the further scolding being thrown at them from behind, and he slotted the key in the lock to room 405.  He practically pushed Yuuri across the threshold before giving a happy little wave toward the pair of irritated guards and shutting the door, turning every single lock. He turned around and put his back to the door, looking at the skater in front of him.  “Heh, well, that was fun…” he remarked with a little chuckle. Yuuri was just staring at him and then a hand went up to his mouth, and then his shoulders started trembling and he squinted his eyes shut. What the hell? “Yuuri, are you okay? Yuuri?”

 

He stood there, shaking, and Victor didn’t know what to do.  

 

Should he just kiss him or something?  

 

Then the eyes opened, sparkling, almost glowing with light from within their dark color behind the lenses of the glasses, and that gorgeous smile appeared.

 

“Oh I can’t stand it oh my God, Bictoru~~! ‘ Our last moments on Earth’?!  Holy shit I can’t even!” He erupted into a fit of laughter so intense he had to take his glasses off and wipe tears from the corners of his eyes.  This was wonderful. Wonderful! So wonderful, that Victor felt that joy again, the very same excitement and happiness he felt during their dances, it was contagious, and he found himself laughing too. 

 

“Well, what was I supposed to say?!  You weren’t helping just standing there looking like a dying fish!”  He mimicked a fish face by sucking in his cheeks and pretending to gasp for air.

 

Yuuri laughed so hard again he nearly lost his balance as he struggled to rid himself from his jacket which he unceremoniously let drop to the floor as he kicked off his shoes.  “Are you really  _ like _ this?!” he almost shouted.

 

“Hey!  What’s that supposed to mean, moi rybka?!”

 

“Moy...what?”  Yuuri sputtered.

 

“Moi rybka!  Little fishy!  That’s your new name now!”

 

Yuuri just shook his head as he calmed his laughter.   “Are you really like this?” he repeated.

 

“Am I like  _ what _ , moi rybka?”

 

He hiccuped and then held his breath, ostensibly to prevent another hiccup.  He released it and just gestured with his hand toward Victor’s general direction.  “LIke this.” He collected himself again, as best as a totally drunk person who had just gotten caught kissing in an elevator could hope to do.  He took a calming breath and walked a few steps closer to where Victor stood with his back against the door. He looked up and their eyes met; Victor honestly felt sparks, or maybe he heard bells tolling, he wasn’t sure, but the atmosphere became charged with energy, but Victor didn’t know what it meant.  Yuuri, apparently, was not an easy person to read, and following his thought lines was confusing at best. But, given that he was still drunk of his hot little ass, Victor just found himself along for the ride trying to figure it out as he went, hoping the night would continue to be full of more surprises.  Finally, after what seemed like dreadfully long seconds, Yuuri spoke again. “You’re real.” 

 

The short sentence was spoken in a voice tinged with solemnity, as though Yuuri had made some kind of important realization, something known only to him, but Victor had a pretty good idea what he meant.  He  _ was  _ real this time.  He wasn’t faking it with this man, he didn’t want to.  “Of course I’m real,” he replied quietly.

 

Yuuri nodded his head.  “You’re still here.”

 

“Did you want me to leave?” Victor felt his heartbeat accelerate again, hoping beyond hope that Yuuri would say that he wanted for him to stay.  He couldn’t remember a time when he felt this nervous about hearing the answer.

 

“No.”

 

Thank God.  “What do you want, then?”  he asked, having a sense that Yuuri was not the type of person who could be pushed too hard or too fast.  Even in his drunken state, there was a carefulness, or a wariness about him that appeared from time to time, and Victor couldn’t figure that out quite yet.  So, he thought it best to let Yuuri decide what he wanted; Victor knew he was already in deep with this guy, and would pretty much be up for anything as long as it involved getting naked with him.  They could sort out details in the morning over coffee and breakfast, right?

 

Yuuri just stood there, not answering.  Victor felt like he couldn’t pull away from the door, as if a weird sideways gravity held him trapped under the weight of Yuuri’s gaze.  Yuuri was about four feet away; closer than he had been a moment before, but too far away to touch. Why wasn’t he answering? It was a pretty basic question, even for a drunk person.  Victor had been hoping that the answer would have been immediate, and something along the lines of “I want you naked on that bed in five seconds”. He didn’t want to push, but, God, he had been so wound up the whole night that it was about killing him to be in this weird limbo in the hotel room.  This was not following the normal pattern at all of drinking-dancing-kissing-fucking. He’d hit three out of four, but, was that where it would end? Did Yuuri just have a moment of clarity that made him decide he didn’t want to continue their flirty moves on the dance floor in that bed that was sitting there invitingly and so tantalizingly nearby?

 

Yuuri turned his head to the side and Victor followed the sightline.  Oh. There was a small bottle of vodka on the table, small enough to pass through customs without a hitch at an airport, probably bought as a souvenir to take home to someone.  Did he have a someone at home after all? Shit. 

 

“Shots,”  Yuuri declared evenly.

 

Huh?  That answer was not what Victor was expecting, and Yuuri was already plenty drunk.  Did he really just invite him for some vodka shots? 

 

“You want to do...shots?”

 

“Y-yeah.  You don’t want to?”

 

Well.  It wasn’t like he didn’t want to.   He usually didn’t refuse an invitation for vodka shots.  But that little bottle was clearly meant as a souvenir; it wasn’t the top shelf stuff, and, jeez, hadn’t Yuuri had enough to drink already?  And also, couldn’t they just get back to flirting and kissing some more? Maybe with tongue this time? Or maybe Yuuri just needed more liquid courage  than anyone else he’d ever met before he would take him to bed? Maybe that was it! Great. He’ll go with that. Although…

 

“I’d love some shots, little fishy.  But not with  _ that _ stuff,” he declared, pointing at the little bottle with disdain.  

 

Yuuri giggled a little again.  Great! “But I thought all Russians drink vodka.  Is that just a stereotype?”

 

Victor finally felt like he could tear his body away from the door and he closed the distance between them.  “I love vodka, Yuuri, but my Russian pride will not let me drink that ‘made for tourists’ excuse for it. If it’s shots you want, let’s order something better, shall we?”

 

That cocky smirk danced across Yuuri’s lips.  “So all Russians  _ do _ drink vodka.”

 

“Yes, it’s a well known fact that even our baby bottles are spiked with it,”  Victor responded playfully as he spied the room service menu on the nightstand and walked over to peruse the vodka selection.  “Of course, that bottle over there will never do for a real Russian.”

 

“Good to know.   I’ll keep that in mind for the next time I find myself alone in a hotel room in Russia with a real Russian.”

 

Wow~!  

 

“Hmm,” Victor replied, willing his heart to stop thundering in his chest; he couldn’t even pretend to be nonchalant by looking over the fair amount of different vodkas available on the menu.  He raised his gaze from the menu and Yuuri was taking off that god-awful tie and tossing it in the general direction of a suitcase which laid open upon the floor. Hot. “Care to make that a promise?  As long as the ‘real Russian’ you are referring to for next time is me, of course,” he added.

 

“Hm.”

 

That non-word again.  It seemed like every time he said it, it meant something else.  Was this some sort of Japanese thing? Or was it a Yuuri thing? His English was really fluent though, and he mentioned Detroit in the States.  Was that where he trained? He’d find out. That could be one more of the details they could discuss over breakfast later. But maybe he’d have to learn Japanese to figure out what “hm” meant?  He didn’t know.

 

When he saw that little smirk again, he returned his attention to the menu. 

 

Details: later.  Vodka: now. Okay. 

 

“Hm” might be a mystery, but he was learning a hell of a lot about that smirk; there might be good surprises ahead yet.

 

“How about Belenkaya?” he asked casually, figuring it probably wouldn’t make a difference given that Yuuri had purchased that imitation crap sitting on the hotel desk, but he rather liked Belenkaya, and he wouldn’t be doing his job as ambassador of the Motherland if he didn’t share some decent vodka with his beautiful Japanese companion.  “It seems like it’s the best of what they’ve got here; of course, I can ask to see if they have something more exclusive.”

 

“Whatever you like, I’m sure I can handle it,” came the sassy response from that pretty mouth attached to that pretty face attached to that muscular arm attached to the hand that was currently tugging on his tie again.  God. Was he an  _ actual _ Japanese ninja?  Victor didn’t even hear or see him move until he was right there in front of him peering over the menu from opposite him and pulling on his tie.

 

“Wow~, did you flirt with me just now, Yuu~~ri?”

 

“Order the vodka and maybe I’ll do it again,” he deadpanned as he looked him in the eye and dropped the tie with a barely-there giggle showing a little proof that he was still drunk.  Maybe it wasn’t actually wise to add more alcohol to the mix, but Victor’s own buzz was waning a little, so he wasn’t opposed to helping it along.

 

He couldn’t even think of a witty retort before Yuuri turned on his heel and one-hopped his way to taking off his socks, tossing them to join the tie somewhere in the vicinity of his suitcase before he entered the bathroom without any further comment.  Victor picked up the phone and ordered the vodka, a couple of liters of Evian, and he asked for two shot glasses. He bade the person on the other end to charge it to his own room, and, when he gave his name, it got comped. Even better, but, damn. He should have gone top shelf, but he had a soft spot for Belenkaya and it would definitely do the job.

 

He returned the phone receiver to the cradle as Yuuri emerged from his bathroom break and watched as the man settled into one of the chairs beside the small table the room offered, his head down a little and the bangs mercilessly hiding his face again.  “Our drinks should be arriving shortly, solnyshko. Can I expect more flirting now?”

 

Yuuri looked up from studying his lap and he rested his elbows on the table, his delicate chin resting in turn on a bridge created by his woven fingertips.  His expression was very serious. “I...are you sure you want to be here? With...me?”

 

Victor wasn’t sure why that needed to be vocalized.  They had danced. They had kissed, albeit briefly, in the elevator.  They ordered more drinks. They were in Yuuri’s room which did not come with an angsty Russian teenager as part of the package.  Yuuri’s shirt and slacks were still unbuttoned, and that tie was finally removed to give his retinas a fucking break from it. Wasn’t it obvious that he wanted to be here?  Maybe for Yuuri, it still wasn’t. Okay.

 

“Of course I want to be here.  You’re full of surprises.” A little huffing laugh and the faintest of smiles graced the younger man’s face.  “Why don’t you take your glasses off and relax, malysh?”

 

At this, Yuuri slowly shook his head in the negative.  “No, I can’t do that.”

 

“Why?”

 

“You’re too far away.”

 

Oh.  Oh! Victor thought that maybe, just maybe, that was an invitation to come closer.  He took it. “Should I come closer to you then?” Yuuri nodded just as slowly and Victor walked over and took the other chair, removing his jacket and draping it over the chair back as he sat.  “Is this better?”

 

Yuuri answered by taking off his glasses.  God he was beautiful. Get this boy some contacts for fuck’s sake.

 

Victor was about to reach for one of Yuuri’s hands when a soft knocking at the door signaled the arrival of their drinks.  “I’ll get it,” Victor announced quietly, rising to go to the door. When he opened it, a young, nervous-looking woman pushed a small cart that carried their vodka and water into the room.  Once it was pushed closer to the table where Yuuri was sitting, Victor followed her back to the door and tipped generously to ensure her discretion before closing it once again. He turned around to see that Yuuri was already uncapping the vodka and pouring them each a shot.  Victor chuckled and picked up one of the liters of bottled water and brought it to the table as well.

 

“Do you think I’ll need a chaser, Bictoru~?”  Yuuri asked with that flirty smile. 

 

“I think you’ll need to stay hydrated,”  Victor commented smoothly, “Especially if we are going to be up for a while.  Are we going to be up for a while, Yuu~~ri?”

 

Yuuri raised his shot glass and Victor followed suit.  “We might be. But chasers are for amateurs. I’m a professional.  Kampai!” he declared, waiting for Victor to return the toast. 

 

“Poyekhali!”   

 

They threw back their shots and slammed the glasses down on the table, Yuuri emitting a loud hiss of an exhale.  “That’s good!” he exclaimed brightly with a smile that lit up his entire face. “What kind is this?” he queried, squinting to read the label of the bottle and then frowning toward the Cyrillic.  

 

“It’s called Belenkaya.  I like it. It’s really good with orange juice too!”

 

Yuuri giggled.  “Breakfast of champions?” he answered, grabbing the bottle and pouring them each another shot.

 

“Ahhh~,”  Victor whined with a put-on pout.  “You’re skipping to breakfast already?  I thought we were just getting started!”

 

Yuuri laughed a little, let the comment pass without a response,  and he downed another shot. Victor followed suit; he reached for the water and uncapped the bottle and took a healthy sip.  “Here. Not a chaser, call it insurance,” he said with a wink as he slid the bottle toward his companion. 

 

“Insurance?”  came the question with a skeptical raised eyebrow.  Cute. 

 

“Yeah. I got the 40% version, so it will pack a punch!”

 

Yuuri’s brow furrowed in confusion.  “Forty percent? Don’t you mean forty proof?”

 

Victor laughed and picked up the bottle, pouring them each another.  “No, solnyshko. Forty percent means  _ eighty _ proof if I recall correctly.  Are you sure you don’t want that chaser?”

 

Yuuri took up the glass and they clinked them together.  Yuuri didn’t answer his question, but shot number three went down a little less smoothly and Yuuri finally took a sip of water.  “Maybe I do,” he relented, taking a few sips from the Evian bottle before preparing another shot for them both. “But don’t think that means I can’t match you shot for shot,” he challenged, knocking the drink back before Victor had a chance to toast them again.  

 

“Mmm...I think we need some music.  My phone’s almost dead, so plug yours in.”

 

Yuuri’s expression brightened again and he slid out from his seat and plugged in his phone.  “What do you like to listen to?” he asked casually from the nightstand. Victor rose from his own chair and leaned over the younger man’s shoulder, lightly placing his hands on his upper arms as the younger bent over his phone.  “B-bictoru…”

 

“I want to know what  _ you _ like, Yuu~~ri.”  He felt a little tension settle in the younger man’s frame so he squeezed his arms gently before releasing them.  Okay. That’s fine; at least he was still close. At least he got to touch him again.

 

Yuuri selected a playlist and adjusted the volume before tapping his phone to start it.  He turned around. “Victor, I…”

 

Victor didn’t allow him to finish the sentence before he leaned down to kiss him gently on the lips.  It was brief, but it still seemed to fluster Yuuri a bit. “Was that not okay?” he whispered when he pulled back.  His heart was thrumming again and it seemed to take forever until Yuuri responded.

 

“You kissed me.”

 

“Yes.  You kissed me before too, so, I thought-”

 

“Do it again.”

 

Victor felt the adrenaline begin to rise; he was more than happy to comply.  He raised one of his hands to Yuuri’s chin, leading him so that their lips could meet once more.  With his eyes closed, he focused on the sensation of having that beautiful face cupped by one of his hands, the smooth skin under his palm warm and soft and amazing.  Just when he was about to lightly tug on Yuuri’s lower lip to ask for entrance, Yuuri pulled back again and the kiss dissolved. He hadn’t removed his hand, though, and it looked like Yuuri was searching for something with his gaze.  “Yuuri, what do you want?”

 

The man didn’t answer, but he raised his own hand to cover the one Victor was not removing from his cheek.  It was soft and warm too, and Victor wanted to melt with it. “Bictoru,” he replied, his voice barely above a whisper, “please...take care of me.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for reading!! I'm really grateful to receive the subs, kudos, bookmarks, and comments. They really give me encouragement to get this thing fully posted. I'm so happy that there are people enjoying my very self-indulgent Sochi fantasy. It really is fun to write for the ship of dreams.
> 
> Thank you! <3  
> ~C


	8. Chapter Eight

_ Please take care of me. _

 

Oh God.  Wow. Wow~!

 

Oh, he’d take care of him.  He’d take care of him and hold him and kiss him and hug him and touch him and-

 

“Of course I’ll take care of you, but, you could also take care of me,” Victor replied softly, interrupting his own thought line before he blurted out the L word that was on the verge of spilling from his brain and right out of his alcohol-loosened mouth.

 

The music in the background was some kind of ballad in half English, half Japanese, and he loved it.  He wondered if Yuuri had picked it specifically, but that could be a thought for later. He put his free hand on Yuuri’s hip and leaned in as the other man’s eyes closed toward the touch.  

 

Their lips met again, but Victor didn’t want to linger with them closed anymore.  He took the younger man’s bottom lip in between his own, giving a gentle tug before venturing with the tip of his tongue to taste the pink skin.  Yuuri opened his mouth a little, and Victor took the chance, pushing lightly with his tongue, searching for contact with the partner’s.

 

He brushed it gently, and Yuuri emitted a slight exhalation toward the sensation.  Taking that as permission, Victor increased the strength of his touch upon the man’s cheek and hip slightly, drawing their bodies close as the song switched again to something else he’d never heard before. He pushed a little more earnestly with his lips and tongue and was thrilled when Yuuri began to respond, gently pushing back.  Oh God. His mouth was so warm, laced with vodka and the lingering sweetness of the Champagne, tongue soft and velvety like the smoothest of silk; where words seemed to sometimes fail this man, the feeling he could convey with his body in dance and with his tongue in a kiss was overwhelming to the Russian champion, a replacement for those too many hollow victories, a satiation of the desire for life and love that he had long since given up on ever experiencing, the cruel tradeoff to be at the top of his athletic game.

 

But none of that mattered when Yuuri threaded his arms through their embrace to encircle him, deepening his exploration with his tongue in answer to Victor’s requests of same; the haze of the alcohol and the warmth of the room having an intensifying rather than dulling effect upon the intimacy.  

 

Intimacy.  

 

Victor thought that was what he had been missing in those failed dates with people who wanted him for his body and for his money and for his fame, or missing from drunken nights in clubs and other hotels where false names were given and orgasms were a few seconds of bliss before partners left or were kicked out, or before he staggered out to hail a cab to get back home to shower the filth away.

 

After another moment or two of tender exploration, the kiss lapsed, and Victor opened his eyes to gaze upon the man before him; his cheeks were flushed and lips a bit swollen and even more pink in response to the gentle pressure of their mouths in meeting.  “Yuuri, I-”

 

“I need another shot,”  Yuuri blurted out in soft interruption, looking away a little for a split second before returning to look into his eyes once more.  “I need it now.”

 

“Okay,” Victor replied, not wanting to break contact, not wanting to see even a hint of doubt or nervousness appear in those dark and infinite eyes.  He parted reluctantly from the embrace but refused to let go completely, choosing instead to put his hand in Yuuri’s and squeeze. “I’ll pour us a shot, but you can’t let go while I do it.”

 

Yuuri followed the sensation with his eyes and both of them looked at their hands together with fingers intertwined.  It was beautiful, and if Victor had his phone out, he’d take a fucking picture; no one else’s hand had ever fit so perfectly within his own, hell, he couldn’t remember ever even holding hands with anyone.   Not like this. Not ever had that gesture had any meaning, so it had been usually ignored. If he’d done it in the past, he had thought it insignificant; he didn’t care if he held hands with a partner or not, and it didn’t matter when they let go.  However, the feeling he had with Yuuri Katsuki since their dance was entirely different. He thought if he let go even for one second, that the other skater might disappear. The feeling was too real, and too intoxicating in its own right. 

 

He was not going to let go.   

 

He pulled Yuuri by the hand for the short few steps to the table, poured, and handed Yuuri his glass before picking up his own.  Without preamble, Yuuri knocked his back before Victor had even raised his glass. “Another one, Victor.”

 

“Are you sure?” he asked, tipping his own shot back and putting his glass on the table to join with Yuuri’s.  God, this guy had some serious tolerance. 

 

“Another one, Victor,” he repeated, squeezing his hand more tightly.  And who was Victor to deny him? 

 

He dutifully filled their shot glasses to the brim, making each of them a double.  He handed the glass to Yuuri and he felt the squeeze tighten on his hand again, almost to the point of pain.  They silently drank the double and put the glasses down.

 

When their eyes met again, Victor could see no trace of doubt.  The handhold dropped, Victor scrambled to whisk off his tie and unbutton his shirt, another pair of hands coming to aid which surprised him into a split second fumbling of the button he was working on before he gave it up completely in favor of letting Yuuri finish the task while he kicked off his shoes.  The younger man left the shirt to lay open but Victor took it off; his experience aiding him with the notion that drinking could  _ always _ be enhanced by stripping.  

 

He was rewarded for adhering to his rule by a sharp intake of breath from the partner, the dark eyes raking him over like hot coals over a fire, followed by a palm flattened to his chest right over his pounding heartbeat.   “Kisushite, Bictoru.”

 

Victor heard “kiss” and that was all he needed to hear, hoping to God that the Japanese utterance meant what he thought it did.  The breathless whisper ignited the passionate fire he’d been keeping in check in an effort to try and figure out as much about Yuuri as he could, but there was no way he was going to turn back now.  He grasped the hand over his heart and pulled the Yuuri into a forceful embrace, leaning down, and enveloping the younger man’s lips with his own until Yuuri opened for him and he dove in with a passion and abandon he desperately wanted to share.

 

Yuuri responded, and, oh God, had some sort of button been pushed?  Had a switch been flipped? He didn’t know, but whatever it was that Yuuri Katsuki was doing with his tongue Victor definitely did  _ not _ want him to stop.  Victor slid his hands down the front of Yuuri’s chest that peeked through the shirt that had not been buttoned since he had danced on the pole.  His skin was smooth, warm, and firm under his fingertips, and Victor wanted more of it. He dragged his hands upward underneath the shirt to reach Yuuri’s shoulders and he pushed the thin garment off, letting it fall into a loose drape held only by the sleeves that were turned up at Yuuri’s elbows.  “Take this off,” he breathed as he continued to succumb to Yuuri’s talented lips and tongue. He should have asked him to take his pants off too, but the younger was busily pulling the shirt off his arms while never stopping in the relentless kisses that were paused only by need for breath.

 

The shirt finally on the floor in an unceremonious pile, the hands returned to his chest and the lips returned to his mouth before the hands left again.  Before Victor realized what was happening, having been caught up again in the energy of Yuuri’s sweeping tongue inside his own mouth, a rustle of fabric and a shifting of hips told the story that Yuuri had basically read his mind and the pants were unzipped and they fell, strangling the ankles of the younger man until he shook his feet and freed his legs from them.  

 

Wow.  Wow~!

 

Victor’s eyes shot open and it was his turn to pull back a little, gripping the younger’s forearms as he washed his gaze over those amazing thighs and those tight little boy shorts; he couldn’t help but to linger his stare for maybe a few more seconds than was actually decent upon the front of them, noting the stress of the fabric as it contained the burgeoning desire within.  Dear God. This was happening. 

 

The flood of memory from the dance on the pole with Chris, Yuuri’s hands on his chest again as the slightly shorter man moved to plant kisses upon his jawline, the sight of him half-hard and damp within the confines of the cotton underwear; it was too much.  The green light seemed to be shouting at him from the attention of Yuuri’s lips, and from the memory of their dancing, and from the now pulsing beat of the music playing from the nightstand, and the two-thirds empty bottle of vodka on the table, and when would this guy just push him down on the bed already and fuck him senseless?

 

He ventured to drag his hands down Yuuri’s back, feeling the muscles shifting under the skin with the pressure of his fingertips, and he dared to dip one finger inside the waistband of the underwear at the bone of Yuuri’s hip.  Even this minute gesture caused another shudder to pass through the other’s body, and Victor responded by sliding his hands around that sweet boy-short-covered ass, squeezing and pulling the man flush against his chest to satisfy his ache for skin to skin contact of any type.  Yuuri responded with another breathless exhalation; he might have said something in Japanese, but Victor couldn’t be sure when his own thoughts were muddled and his blood was now heading south of his brain faster than Yuuri had downed his vodka shots. 

 

Oh it felt so good.  He had always liked it like this: a little drunk, a little messy, a little raw, dear God, he hoped Yuuri was up for that.  It was a little late to ask him about preferences or whatever, but Victor would let this man do just about  _ anything _ as long as he kept squeezing his leg in between those killer-and-now-blissfully-naked thighs and grinding with his hips in time to the song that was playing over the tinny phone speaker. 

 

The vodka was hitting just as he reached up to grab a fistfull of that grogeous black hair and tip Yuuri’s head away from his neck to take a hungry kiss from his mouth.  The little moan he felt more than heard was more than enough reward. “Yuuri…” he breathed, “do you want this…?”

 

The answer was delayed by more salacious lip smacking, earnest nibbling of lips and squeezes through the boy shorts until finally one of Yuuri’s exhalations carried with it the whisper of a “yes”. 

 

Thank God it was a yes.

 

Victor hadn’t realized that they had moved closer to the table as they kissed until he backed into it, making the shot glasses fall over and roll to the floor and causing the bottle of vodka to topple dangerously until Yuuri shot out a hand to grab it by the neck without breaking the kiss.  How the hell did he do that? Kyushu ninja? Oh well, fuck it. It didn’t fucking matter, not when the next sight before him was of Yuuri breaking the kiss with a loud smack, forgoing the glass, and taking a shot-sized sip straight up from the bottle and then wordlessly commanding him to do the same, tipping it up once lips made contact, the burn slipping down Victor’s throat almost before he could swallow it.

 

Oh Dear God.  

 

He hadn’t had a night like this since forever, since Paris with Chris and the Absinthe and dry-fucking on the dancefloor and almost-blow job at the back of the dance floor; but this was better, despite the shitty speaker playing the music, despite the fact that he wasn’t sure exactly what Yuuri wanted to do, or what Yuuri wanted  _ him _ to do.  It didn’t matter.  None of that mattered now that he had him in his arms, attached at lips and groin and leg, supported by a flimsy table that wasn’t worth  _ shit _ , in a basic room with probably zero soundproofing, and just fucking ask him if he cared.  He didn’t; the probably too-loud groan that escaped him confirming that as Yuuri nipped where his neck met his collarbone.   That sexy thing only took that as encouragement to do the same thing on the other side; a matched set of hickeys was sure to be the result and Victor still just didn’t fucking care, and why wasn’t this guy undoing his goddamn belt yet?!

 

_ Enough. Ebat. _

 

In one swift motion, Victor pushed to break them apart, threw Yuuri’s arms around his neck, bent at the knees, and looped his arms around those luscious thighs and picked that hottie up and launched them both onto the bed, the furniture squealing loudly in protest as Yuuri ended up on his back with his legs wrapped around him and a split-second startled expression before he threw his head back to allow for Victor to return the kiss-mark favor.

 

Yuuri’s skin was so smooth, like the finest of porcelain, salty-sweet and unlike any skin he’d tasted before, or maybe Yuuri was just unlike any man he’d been with before, a man who alternated between shudders of disbelieving surprise and bursts of assertiveness that were driving him crazy and getting him so hard that it hurt.  There was so much to learn, so much to find, so much depth, and maybe he was putting the proverbial cart before the horse, but goddamn it if Yuuri wasn’t riling him up to the point of no return and showing no signs of stopping. 

 

He reached and pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and slammed it on the nightstand, hoping that he’d be able to get the tucked away protection out from it when the moment arrived; he had no idea what would happen, all of it an unknown, all of it a surprise, all of it uncharted territory, like a new breath of life had been given to him that only heated his desire further, deeper, into something much more profound, into something much more  _ real _ .

 

Yuuri lay beneath him, gasping for air, a blush on his cheeks and his eyes squeezed shut, his tight little six-pack stuttering with the exertion of their kisses and from the clear arousal behind the boy-shorts and Victor  _ wanted _ him, had no idea how Yuuri would want things, had no way of knowing, had no way of finding out beyond outright asking, because Yuuri sure wasn’t telling him anything, and,  _ goddamnit _ , if he didn’t tell him how he wanted it soon, Victor would fucking top him himself and maybe they could go for another round where he could have that gorgeous being screw him to within an inch of his life.  

 

He braced himself with one arm and rained a shower of kisses over Yuuri’s athletically defined chest, and used his other hand to undo the clasp of his belt and the hook-and-eye of his pants, almost ripping the fastener off with impatience.  He gave his length a quick couple of strokes through the shield of underclothes to adjust to the slight freedom of the pulled-down zipper before returning his hand to Yuuri’s amazing thigh that was pinned against his ribcage. He kneaded the sport-honed muscles, feeling the strength underneath the skin that had no doubt launched countless jumps both successful and not-so-much, and flying spins, and that which controlled those beautiful steps, and extended en pointe in dance, and hugged the pole...

 

Oh he was exciting, and   _ beautiful. _ ..no goddamn gold medal could ever compare.

 

Suddenly Yuuri’s eyes shot open and Victor was pulled down by a strong hand encircling the back of his neck and into another passionate meeting of lips and tongue; the legs that had been wrapped around his ribs and waist slid down and,  _ yes!, _ hooked around his own thighs.   The next thing Victor knew, he felt the powerful grip increase and Yuuri used his entire body as leverage to reverse their positions in bed where Victor landed on his back with a little bounce on the mattress that was answered by another squeal of the bedframe and slam of the headboard against the wall, and sorry,  _ not sorry _ , next-door neighbors, but they were going to get a gold-medal  _ show _ and Victor didn’t give a shit if they complained.

 

This is exactly where he had wanted to be all goddamn night: nicely drunk, thoroughly kissed, and on his back ready for Yuuri Katsuki to show him that confidence he displayed throughout his evening of dancing.  Victor had always been drawn to confident lovers, confidence was something essential for being competitive at the highest echelons of any sport, and he lived it and breathed it himself every time he took the ice in order to lead, to  _ win _ .  But it was a lot of work to keep that up enough to win as many times as he had, and, when he was off the ice, there was a certain amount of thrill in letting a partner take the lead, to take control, to  _ surprise  _ him all the way to fruition.  However, those moments of passionate surprise from a lover were like diamonds; so rare, so valuable, and plenty of cheap knock-offs readily available that simulated the look but lacked the strength to cut through the glass of his skater’s heart and make an impact upon him.  

 

As Yuuri Katsuki nipped and sucked a line from his neck down to his abs, Victor thought he might have just found that one precious diamond in the world, still in the rough, perhaps,  that was meant only for him. How many facets could there be to this diamond of a man? He didn’t know, but he wanted to see every single goddamn one of them, each one casting a different angle through which light could pass, each one a mysterious glimpse into the gem’s complexity, refracting the light with sparkles until it was examined closely and with scrutiny to see the naked clarity inside.  

 

How fast could he get there with Yuuri Katsuki?

 

Could he be...the  _ one _ ?

 

Lips returned to his lips, the soft tongue probing deeply now, in a pace a bit less frantic, but with heightened intensity.  Victor could feel the emotions flooding into him from this man, and it surprised him, startled him with the passion, the  _ adoration _ he could sense coming through the kiss.  Oh God, he felt loved in this moment, truly  _ loved, _ as a hand held firm to his waist, and as a foot slid down his calf over his pants to gently nudge his leg a bit apart to allow the man to place his knees down on either side of it.

 

And finally, _ finally, _ that killer thigh pressed down, and Victor heard the desperate moan escape his own throat as he felt the friction on his groin.  A pleasing firmness settled on top of his own thigh and he pushed up against it with his leg. Yuuri shuddered so completely in response; God that was gorgeous.  What would he look like when he came? That’s all Victor cared to know at that moment, and if it looked anything like the twisted agony he saw from just pressing his leg into the man, he was certain the image of his beautiful Yuuri in release would be burned into memory for life.

 

“Bictoru…”

 

Oh God.  Victor thought he could come just by listening to his name spoken with that drippy accent...what would it sound like if he called him Vitya?  Vivi? Vitenka? 

 

The kissing never stopped, the grind against his groin was less consistent, but maybe Yuuri was already close?  Victor didn’t know, but he certainly wanted to find out. “Yuuri,” he breathed between the urgent slide of tongue, “when will you touch me more…?”

 

“Hm…”

 

He didn’t care if it would be quick, didn’t care if Yuuri rushed in with little preparation, didn’t care if he lost it, recklessly selfish and demanding, didn’t care if Yuuri made him scream with pain; he didn’t fucking care.  “Touch me, Yuuri…” he breathed again as a hand threaded through his hair with a touch so soft in contrast to the steely arousal grinding on this thigh. The feeling made Victor’s eyes roll back, every nerve ending on his scalp awakened and sought for the sting of his hair to be pulled harder, but Yuuri refused to oblige him, continuing the soft caress instead until Victor had enough and raised his own hand to roughly shove back the strands of black silk that curtained Yuuri’s forehead.  The action caused the kiss to violently break as that slender neck was exposed to Victor’s searing gaze; Yuuri gasped and shoved his thigh with purpose into Victor’s groin, appearing to shock himself with the gesture, as if he was surprised by his own actions, as if he was surprised that hairpulling could be erotic, as if he was blissfully unaware of all the pleasures Victor wanted him to take.

 

“Bictoru...omae no koto…” he gasped in Japanese,  finally giving Victor what he needed by pulling on his hair when Victor pressed a firm kiss into that graceful neck.  Victor knew he groaned into Yuuri’s skin, the shock of the sting on his head causing him to bite a bruise that would definitely remain well into the next day.   When he heard Yuuri speak in his native language, not knowing, not understanding, not being able to define anything but the sound, the rough edge behind the words colored with a hint of what might have been excitement or awe or even reverence;  he thought he might just fall apart into a million shattered pieces, every single one of them belonging to this singularly beautiful and powerful creature, this man who made him shed his false skin and false persona, this man who could strip him bare with just a look, this man to whom he could see himself giving him everything, body, mind, and soul, and goddamnit when would he feel him inside?  When would Yuuri take charge completely? When would he decide to just fucking take everything Victor wanted to give?

 

Victor pulled the man down to him again as he lay back, kissing him deeply, penetrating his lips with his tongue, insistent and wanting, forgetting his own English as he bled a fiery mix of Russian endearments and obscenities into that sweet mouth. God, Yuuri was amazing, evoking indescribable feelings of all the four loves inside him, Storge, Philia, Eros, and Agape, all in the span of seconds and half-seconds: their shared experience of skating that led them to this moment, the respect as fellow competitors, and the discovery of lustful want in the heat of touch,  and the tender caresses of care interspersed with the urgency of sexual need, it was overwhelming to have them all combined in this one example of humanity that was currently driving him over he edge of reason with his sensual body and breathy words and sounds.

 

“Zutto...Bictoru...zutto mae ni…”

 

“That’s it, malysh, tell me, tell me everything,”  Victor groaned between the staccato kisses forced needfully between the words, “I don’t care what language you use as long as you tell me you want me now...”

 

“V-victor…,” he whispered, running hands down his chest, glancing with his fingertips and lips at his pectorals with the faintest of brushes, “kirei...sugoku kirei...want you…”

 

Oh God yes.   _ God yes! _

 

Victor put his hands on Yuuri’s arms, pushing to raise him before sliding his hands down the length of the muscular limbs and down to the those of the younger.  He drew the hands within his own to the waistband of his pants, encouraging him with a little thrust of hip that made Yuuri’s breath hitch and a little moan escape him.  Victor wanted more, needed more, needed it now, needed it ten minutes ago, needed it two hours ago, needed it all night, needed it all his goddamn  _ life _ .  He felt the hands under his suddenly shrink up into fists.  The hell? What was this? Hesitation? Shit. No. No.  _ Why?! _

 

“Is...is this a dream…?  If it is, don’t wake me…”

 

_ What?! _  Oh, hell no.

 

That’s fucking  _ it _ .

 

Victor released his hold and shot his arms up to grab the sides of Yuuri’s beautiful face, cheeks flushed and pink, and he pulled him down with passionate force to his own mouth, wanting to drug the hesitation away with his own lustful greed.  Thank God Yuuri responded, losing himself into the kiss, his tongue matching the near-violent assault Victor laid upon the tender folds of his mouth; Yuuri’s hands held fast and firm to the waistband of his pants, but no further did they venture.  Victor broke the kiss sharply, still holding onto Yuuri’s heated and reddened cheeks, and he looked straight into those bottomless brown eyes that were now wide with surprise as he lifted his entire lower body to forcefully grind his thigh into Yuuri’s hard length, lifting him off of his knees and causing another heated rasp of breath to escape the younger man.  “Did that feel like a dream?”

 

“N-no…”

 

“Good,”  Victor replied, lowering himself again and releasing his grasp from Yuuri’s face to secure his hold on hips instead.  Yuuri’s knees once more came to rest on either side of his thigh, and Victor reached his hands around to that tight little ass and pulled him down into firmer contact with his leg.  The motion caused a deliciously involuntary buck of those boy-short clad hips, the friction of the full arousal against his leg sent another jolt of want through the endings of nerves that travelled to only one intimate destination.  That earned another kiss, and Victor drank deeply of it, and, once again, Yuuri responded in kind and Victor squeezed that luscious butt and ran fingertips of one hand teasingly over the chasm in between. Yuuri broke the kiss and threw his head back with a sharp breath toward the touch.  Okay. So maybe he wanted  _ that _ .  

 

God it had been awhile since he truly had to take the lead, but Victor wasn’t about to deny this partner.  He’d give this man anything he wanted, anything he needed, anything he’d ask for. If he’d ask. So, why wouldn’t he just ask for it?  Or, even better, why wouldn’t he  _ demand _ for something?  Maybe Victor needed to be the one to do the asking, maybe he needed to be the one to set this man’s heart afire to match the embers Yuuri had stoked within his own. 

 

Maybe he needed to be the one to do the exploring, and maybe Yuuri just wanted to be explored.

 

The fists that held onto his pants suddenly relaxed and palms lay flat upon the six-pack of Victor’s abs, warm and light, and with their soft surfaces made sweaty, maybe from the clenching of fingers and their white-knuckled former position, or maybe from nerves, or, Victor hoped, maybe from anticipation.

 

Whatever the reason for the decision made, Yuuri made a decision to let go, just a little, and maybe his own need was surpassing his ability to restrain himself;  Victor did not have a clue as to the why, and didn’t want to spend the time to figure it out. He slid one hand from Yuuri’s rear and down the quadricep, dragging a line with the index finger down to the inside of his thigh when he felt the tension increase, a slight tremble of recognition, a slight signal that there was feeling there, a slight conveyance through breath that Yuuri’s attention was definitely on Victor’s hand and not on his own sweaty palms, even as they began to press firmly into the skin beneath them.

 

Victor stroked the soft and tender skin of inner thigh, safely distant from where the treachery of Yuuri’s body continued to occur behind the underwear, and he moved his other hand down to mirror the motion, distracting him, forcing him to divide his brain’s attention between right leg and left, Victor’s right hand and left; which one would move?  Which one would stall? From where would the pleasure come next, and to where would it next go? There were infinite possibilities from this moment, a touch here, a kiss there, a press now, a climax later; pleasure upon pleasure, wave upon wave, until their bodies were joined by the magic of Eros.

 

Could Victor make Yuuri drown with it?

 

Yuuri’s body became still despite the halted breathing as his attention focused solely on the teasing touches to his thighs. The hands that had been nearly digging into his abs relaxed, and the muscles in his legs tensed.  It was the moment Victor chose to surprise him, to make him understand that this was real, that he was real and it was not a dream, and that, even though he might be Victor Nikiforov, he was truly just a man who had a need, a desire, a longing to experience Yuuri as he appeared to be:  sexy, sometimes bold, sometimes shy, and probably, always beautiful.

 

He put his hands back on Yuuri’s hips and pressed down, hard, as he thrust upward to create a grind that had Yuuri collapsing upon his chest with rasping breaths and more cluttered Japanese.  He shifted Yuuri onto his back, and the younger man’s arms spread wide and out to the sides; even clouded by drink and desire, his limbs fell into the beautiful line of ballet’s second position upon the crisp white sheets of the bed.  Victor linked his hands with Yuuri’s, fingertips woven and grips tightening; the eyes of the man under him were squeezed shut and his head rolled back with the agony of want, exposing the line of his neck for Victor to sample with tongue and teeth to make him shudder.  Victor released one of his hands and blindly swatted at the nightstand for his wallet, knocking the phone accidentally onto the floor until he found it and rifled through it without looking to grab the small square and bring it down to the bed, hoping that the partner would get the hint and maybe supply the other thing they would need that Victor didn’t have tucked away in a wallet or a pocket.    He threaded his now-free hand through Yuuri’s hair and led him up for more kisses to his lips, frantic and daring now, coupled with a steady rhythm of friction between them that Victor initiated and in which Yuuri joined, each of them yearning with desire, their urgent physical responses the result of needs neglected for the sake of competition on the ice. “Yuuri,” Victor breathed, “I need you....”

 

“...Bictoru….”

 

“I have one thing,” he whispered into Yuuri’s mouth as they kissed, “Please tell me you have the other...”

 

The kisses continued, gaining intensity with shared breath, nips to bottom lips and the sensual and reciprocal mouthing of chins and jawlines, the tugging with teeth at earlobes and the soothing of same with tongue: all were punctuating the wordless erotic dialogue.  Damn it. Why wasn’t Yuuri answering? Since it had ended up this way, there was no way Victor was going to disappoint; he knew he was wasted, as was Yuuri, and he didn’t care anymore; he hadn’t topped in a while but, then again, he hadn’t done  _ anything _ in a while, neither this, nor that, nor the other thing.   He felt his impatience mounting, his need deep and firm and ready to take this man completely into the flashpoint of the fire he had set ablaze inside Victor’s  heart and loins. So intense was the heat of the zero-space in between their bodies that he felt the prickle of perspiration at his temple and at the nape of his neck.  “Yuu...ri,” he gasped, “We’re gonna need-...I want…”

 

“Bictoru…. _ ah! _ -Bath...room… _.haaaah!. _ ..blackbag…,” he sputtered out against Victor’s needful mouth.

 

Victor heard himself groan in response, an utterance brought forth by profound relief that the item could be found, but  _ goddamnit!    _ Why the fuck was it all the way over there in the bathroom?!  Fuck. Yuuri was so delicious looking with the blooming kiss marks on his pale flesh, panting and hard and shuddering into a fucking gorgeous  _ hot mess _ that Victor did not want to leave for one damn second to let him up to get the fucking lube.  Shit. He’d do it himself and just grab the bag and come right back since he didn’t want this man even to have one goddamn chance to gain freedom from the bed, not when it was finally clear where this was going.  “I’ll get the bag, bring it over here, and you will find whatever you have as fast as fucking possible,” he whispered hotly into Yuuri’s ear before taking his mouth again with a bruising kiss that had Yuuri moaning under him.  Having gotten the man’s attention he hissed into his mouth, “I don’t care if you have to dump all your shit out on the bed to find it. You get me?”

 

“Y-yeah…”

 

Victor pressed a searing kiss into Yuuri’s mouth and bolted from the bed and into the bathroom, spying a black bag sitting on the counter.  He grabbed it and one of the towels from the rack roughly and was back on the bed and back on top of Yuuri quickly, not wanting to give this man one second to change his mind, drugging him with more kisses and, holy shit, tasting a fresh dose of vodka on his tongue.  Opening one eye, he could see that the bottle was now sitting on the nightstand. Maybe Yuuri was an _actual_ _goddamn ninja_ because Victor didn’t think he was gone long enough for this naughty little angel to jump out of bed, reach for and drink from the vodka, place it on the nightstand, and get in bed before he got back.  Fine then, Sexy Thing. Two can play. Fuck it. 

 

He reached for the bottle himself and took a swig and Yuuri shocked him by pulling him down for a kiss so the spirit spilled into his own mouth, almost choking him with it before he managed to swallow; holy hell.  Victor suddenly had a split-second dilemma that involved wanting to have Yuuri suck him off instead, but no.  _ No _ .  “Oh you are  _ something _ , Yuu-ri~~,”  he moaned, running his hands all over him, “How did you know I like it like this sometimes hmmm?”’  He didn’t care to wait for an answer, didn’t care what the answer might would be; God Yuuri was so hot, writhing in apparent near-discomfort from an arousal that was just begging for release.  Of course Victor was in the same condition, not willing to wait anymore for Yuuri to ask verbally for anything now, because it sure as hell looked like he was already close to the edge. “Find it,”  he directed, unzipping the bag so hard the zipper almost tore off and in went Yuuri’s hand rooting around until Victor couldn’t wait anymore and shoved his hand off, dumping the contents of the small bag out on the bed and then swiping off everything onto the floor but the smallish bottle of what he hoped was lube.  “This is it right?” he gasped, thinking he should have asked first because of-fucking- _ course _ everything the guy owned had fucking Japanese writing all over it. 

 

“Mmmyeah..,” his gorgeous ninja answered breathlessly.  Thank God. 

 

He palmed the bottle to warm it, and glanced around until he sighted the condom which, apparently, Yuuri had placed back on the nightstand so it wouldn’t get lost as they tumbled in the bedclothes.  Victor kissed a line from Yuuri’s jaw and down to his navel,dipping his tongue inside before circling the outer rim of the cutest and tiniest button he’d ever seen, and enjoying the reaction it produced.  “That’s right, Yuuri, let me hear you…”

 

“Bic..toru...I...ah!  Whatareyoudoing….?”

 

“Everything you want me to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, and thanks for all the <3 It's adored!  
> I've had a lot of fun writing this, so I hope you are having fun reading it.  
> ~C


	9. Chapter Nine

Everything Yuuri wanted, even if the man wasn’t sure about what that was himself, Victor was prepared to give.  The human body was a miracle, but, for some elite few in the world, the body was not only a miracle; it was something to be worshipped and cared for as a deity, carefully maintained, honed to athletic perfection, linked with the mind, thoughts, and emotions in total synch.  

 

There were plenty of people who could dance, Victor was one of them.  There were plenty of people who could skate; he was definitely one of those people too.  

 

But Yuuri Katsuki was even more incredible:  he could make his body create its own music. 

 

And, amidst his desire and the vodka, and amidst the blankets now cast-off and the bedsheets now rucked-up as they explored each other with their mouths and with heated caresses, amidst the sometimes bold and then alternatively shocked and startled reactions he was getting from the partner, a realization was forming in Victor’s brain as his own body longed to sing a duet with him:  Yuuri Katsuki has no idea how fucking amazing he is.

 

Maybe Victor could change that.

 

Maybe...it could start from here.  Maybe it could be born of Eros, and turn into something else.

 

Maybe he didn’t have to walk away after they satisfied themselves between the sheets.

 

The thought sent a surge of fresh want through his veins, and Yuuri seemed to sense the need as he responded to the deepened kiss. 

 

Victor heard a groan escape the partner and felt hips involuntarily thrust up into his chest from beneath him,  and, taking that as asking, taking it as permission, Victor slid his hands upward upon Yuuri’s powerful thighs underneath the hem of the boyshorts, until his fingers appeared at the waistband from underneath, where he held fast onto Yuuri’s hips to hold him down against the man’s obvious urge to lift.  He was rewarded by a frustrated sound and a hand coming down upon his head, silver hair weaving over and under the foreign fingers. It was times like these when Victor sometimes regretted having cut his long locks, longing for the sting and pull from a passionate partner, but, Yuuri was different. He didn’t pull indiscriminately, no, he slipped the hair through his fingers with lulling tenderness until he suddenly pressed his entire hand upon his head, applying a pressure on his scalp that turned out to be even more exciting than the quick rough yanks he had grown used to receiving from partners who used the gesture to guide him to what they wanted him to do, whether or not Victor really wanted to do it.  

 

Everything about these acts with this person was  _ different _ .  Even through his drunkenness, his brain still registered that, and God, he’d love to feel that pressure of Yuuri’s strong hand again, and again, and everywhere.  He felt a wanton throb in his own body toward the touch and his own thoughts surrounding it, his thoughts about the sexy musical magic of Yuuri’s body, and he turned his hands over underneath the shorts, pulling them taut to trap the length held within.  

 

“Bictoru…”

 

He returned to Yuuri’s lips for more kisses, that sweet tongue dipping and rolling within his mouth as he pulled on the underwear and pressed himself down to ease his own ache.  He experienced another jolt of excitement when he felt Yuuri’s arms thread through his and hold firmly to his back. He let out a hum of pleasure into the kiss and Yuuri quickened the pace of it, and, once again, the spark ignited and hands roamed over the expanse of his back, and hips sought the previously abandoned rhythm from their earlier moments.  So good. So hot; it was like Yuuri’s body fit like a puzzle piece into his own, his every touch had a veil of tenderness with smoldering heat just underneath the surface yearning to break free. “What do you want, Yuuri…?”

 

A groan was the response both to the question and to Victor sliding one of his hands under the boyshorts from the hip and around to that tight little ass. “I’m taking these off,”  Victor whispered, “so I better hear something about what you want soon.”

 

“Bictoru…”  Again, the utterance died with the breath of his name and followed with no verbal directive, and Victor wondered what he could do, what it would take for Yuuri to break through whatever barrier he was clinging to and just fucking  _ Tell. Him. _

 

Victor pulled the shorts down enough to reveal the round of Yuuri’s hip bones and he placed a suckling kiss upon one of them, surrounding the bone with a light press of teeth upon leaving it to raise the man. He started to slide off the fabric in what he hoped would be a slow torture of revealing the intimate skin when he suddenly felt hands in a death grip upon his own, forcing him to stop.  He shot a look upward and met Yuuri’s eyes, somewhat squinty but intensely staring nonetheless. “Will you…” he began, his voice trailing off and his brow furrowed in concentration before he shook his head violently and it fell back upon the pillows. No. No! Victor wanted to know, wanted to hear the command that was on the very tip of Yuuri’s tongue that would bring his walls crashing down.  Why did it look like he was second guessing in this situation?! 

 

Victor clambered back up on Yuuri’s body, covering him with his own, grinding on his arousal and peppering his face and neck with kisses.  “That’s it, Yuuri, what do you want me to do for you, hmm?”

 

Yuuri groaned and his eyes rolled back.  “I...it’s too...you won’t…. _ chikusho… _ ”

 

Oooh, whatever that last word was, Victor thought it sounded naughty.   “I won’t...what…?” he whispered hotly into Yuuri’s ear that was as flushed and red as his thoroughly kissed lips, “I’ll take care of you, malysh, so what do you want?  I’m sure I want whatever it is…”

 

Yuuri opened his eyes and their faces were close, eyes with pupils blown out meeting each other and seeking, deciding, and then, Victor thought he could actually see the barrier fall and the decision made in the split second before Yuuri hungrily bit marks into his neck, kissing a path to his ear.  Victor felt his eyes widen toward the hot breathy message that hit the drums of hearing. “Bictoru...suck me off…”

 

Oh God.  Dead. Was he really dead this time?  

 

Not according to his body’s instant reaction to the whispered command.  The answer was obvious: “I thought you’d never ask…,” he replied breathlessly, already working the boyshorts down to Yuuri’s ankles and throwing them wherever upon the floor as he kneaded the legs which were probably about to cause Death by Thighs. Victor took a few precious seconds to enjoy the view of the man in his complete glory: hard, flushed purple, and leaking and ready for him.  “Fucking gorgeous…,” he muttered, not knowing if he spoke Russian or English, and not caring to translate with anything but his tongue exploring the intimate length and feeling the shudder of the partner, the hitched breaths of pleasure, and a hand upon his head trembling through the strength of the grip. Victor continued to take his time, teasing tastes of flesh to create a precipice from which Yuuri would have no choice but to become desperate for his mouth, to demand  _ more _ , to  _ demand _ what he wanted.  Victor would give it, he was so worked up he thought that he might be able to come from just that giving alone.   The desire to make Yuuri desperate enough to fall into the depths of Eros, to flood Victor with the taste; it was a singular want driven by Victor’s own passion that he wanted to fully experience with this man who had taken his breath away in one single night. 

 

The sounds Yuuri made as he received pleasure were amazing, especially when they flew out of his mouth before he could stifle them with his hand or a pillow.  His body was a collection of involuntary movements and utterances that provided a naughty soundtrack to the act, and Victor knew that Yuuri was needing more contact, a firmer hold on him than the teasing brushes and tongue were providing.  The moisture expelling from the tip tasted more sweet than bitter, and every time Victor dipped the tip of his tongue at the slit, Yuuri made a gasp of some more naughty-sounding Japanese, and his whole body shook with desire. He was almost there, almost ready to demand, Victor knew it, but he wanted to hear it.  Acting upon knowing was one thing, but acting upon being  _ told  _ to do something was an entirely different experience.  Victor wanted this partner to tell him every single thing he wanted done to his body, he wanted the demand to be confident and self-assured; Victor wanted Yuuri to stop trying to self-censor the noises of pleasure and fucking call out his name, obscenities, endearments,  _ whatever _ , Victor didn’t care, but he wanted the  _ demand _ before he’d take him fully in mouth and hand and drive him over the approaching edge.  “Tell me how you want it, Yuuri,” he whispered, taking the younger in hand and sliding his fingers around him in a caress of feather-touches before gripping him firmly and pulling hard enough to cause a moan and some more unintelligible sounds escape.  “Tell me what you want,” he repeated.

 

The next thing Victor knew, Yuuri was sitting up in bed and looking at him with that confidence he showed on the dance floor, the air of single-minded focus that had been missing from his skating, the laser point of challenge and purpose that surprised from the underneath of the shy-boy exterior, the want and need that Victor was trying to trap and hold and keep only for himself before he even realized that was exactly what he wanted and needed too. 

 

Seconds seemed to stretch for hours before the hushed spoken reply: “I want you to make me come with your mouth.”

 

Deadly.  Oh God, this was probably how Victor was going to die someday, at the mercy and command and whim of  _ this _ partner.

 

“My pleasure,” Victor replied, licking the pulsing vein on the underside of Yuuri’s length before flattening his tongue and encircling his lips around him.  And, oh, the sound the partner made as he fell back upon the pillows! It was constricted groan of desperate want surrounded by unintelligible words or, maybe they were non-words; Victor didn’t know.  He found himself humming in approval as he labored against the firmness between his lips, mentally recording every gasp, feeling every throb, swallowing every drop that leaked from the slit and into his mouth.  Amazing. 

 

He began to establish a rhythm, increasing the pace and suction to bring the man home, to make him come as he’d been told to do.  The involuntary movements beneath him told the story of a man who was desperately trying to stave off the inevitable for however long he could manage it, desperately trying not to thrust with too much abandon, no matter that Victor wanted for Yuuri to simply  _ let go _ instead.  “So beautiful, Yuuri…” he murmured through the attention he gave to every pass of lips and tongue, hearing an almost-whimper in response and feeling the grip of the hand through his har tighten even more on his scalp.

 

“B-bictoru...boku... _ chikusho _ ...I’m close…”

 

That’s exactly what Victor wanted to hear; he slid one hand underneath and squeezed his ass as he tightened the index finger and thumb of his other hand into a circle to form a ring of pressure at the base of Yuuri’s arousal, hoping that the temporary orgasmic denial would produce the forceful end result Victor craved for Yuuri to have.  The whining and thrusting he received toward the touch told him he was doing the right things to bring this man to the brink of what he hoped would be a death-drop plunge to drown within the depths of Eros.

 

He removed the hand from underneath Yuuri’s sexy bottom, fumbling blindly on the bed for the small bottle until he found it and flicked off the cap.  Not letting go of Yuuri’s most intimate place with either his mouth or his other hand, Victor managed to coat his fingers well enough to do what he wanted to do.  Keeping the ring his fingers created tight, he lessened the pressure of his mouth slightly, taking slow passes over the entire length as he gently teased a line with a lubricated finger down to the tender entrance beneath, circling gently on the outside and not pushing, a gasped  _ “B-bictoru…!” _ the delicious consequence of the action.

 

“Do you want more, malysh?” he breathed as he laved Yuuri’s body with his tongue, sucking at the tip before devouring him and tightening his fingers at the base to what he thought might be just about the limit before he caused Yuuri actual pain beyond the pleasure.

 

“Y-yeah…”

 

Victor could taste him in earnest now; he knew Yuuri couldn’t last much longer.  He rubbed his finger in a gentle massage at his entrance, feeling the partner tense up and hearing another gasp.   He was about to push inside when he heard the sweetest words: “Victor...please…”

 

Oh God.

 

Victor’s own body lurched in response from within the restraint of his own underwear and pants; it had been a very long time since someone had ever said “please”.    It seemed like Yuuri had reached that point of desperation, and Victor was all too happy to bring him to release. He pushed inside with his finger as he relaxed the ring of pressure from his other hand, moving his hand up and down in time with the movements of his mouth instead, and he sucked, hard, and Yuuri did  _ not _ disappoint.

 

“Bictoru!  Ahh...fu-I can’t...I’m co-..I can’t hold back, I’m…”

 

Victor ignored the desperate tugging on his head done in an obvious effort to warn him of the impending orgasm, and he looked up toward Yuuri’s face which was contorted with an almost pained expression through his pleasure.  With a near-violent thrashing of his hips, Yuuri came in spurts into the cavern of Victor’s mouth, his breaths in sputtering gasps and with words Victor didn’t understand beyond hearing his name interspersed with some of them; God he was ridiculously sexy when he came, amazingly beautiful when he allowed himself to give in to the bliss of orgasm.  An almost serene expression followed and washed over his entire body in a wave of a pink flush as Victor continued to drink every last drop of release from him, tonguing lightly over the sensitive skin as it began to soften.

 

He gently let go with his mouth and hands;  Yuuri’s chest was rising and falling in deep inhalations and exhalations, an arm draped over his face where he could hide behind the crook of his elbow.  No. That will simply not do.

 

“You’re amazing, Yuuri,”  Victor whispered, as he trailed soft kisses upward on the man’s still-spasmic body.  “Don’t hide yourself from me,” he said gently, trailing fingertips down the arm that shielded Yuuri from view until he reached his wrist.  He lowered it back down to the bed where he could entwine his fingers with the other. Surprisingly, Yuuri did not only allow it, but he squeezed back with quite some force.

 

Taking that as evidence that Yuuri was okay and maybe just still coming down from the high, Victor started to leave more kisses upon his neck until he finally reached his ear.  “I want you to touch me…”

 

He hadn’t realized that the playlist from the phone had ended until he leaned down to lay his head upon Yuuri’s chest where the music of Yuuri’s frantically beating heart had taken its place.  Would there be other nights where he could share a bed with Yuuri like this? Would they get to a point where they were...together, and he could listen to the music of Yuuri’s body all the time?

 

Again, Yuuri said nothing, but a hand threaded through his hair with that barely-there touch to show that he was listening.  Victor’s body was painful with want, but the soothing rhythm of Yuuri’s fingers was such a sharp contrast that it made for an excitement-heightening effect rather than the calming one he thought maybe Yuuri was trying to convey.  

 

“I...am touching you…,” came the whispered reply.

 

In response, Victor reached with his hand to pull the fingers away from his hair, laying a kiss upon them, then slowly pulling one of them into his mouth and rolling his tongue around it before closing his lips and sucking lightly.  He felt the heartbeat skip a little. Good. “I want more of you, Yuuri.”

 

“Victor…”

 

“Come here,” he offered gently, pulling the younger man in for a kiss that quickly turned from chaste to passionate as he lowered Yuuri’s hand within his own downward to encourage the partner to touch him.  He held the warm hand over the clothed intimate place, sighing into the kiss and involuntarily throbbing toward the tentative touch of the other’s palm.

 

The kiss lapsed and Victor opened his eyes; Yuuri had his eyes closed and his brow furrowed in concentration once again, and the touch strengthened.  “That’s it malysh...touch me more…”

 

The answer came with a firmer grip that caused a sigh to slip from his throat and finally,  _ finally!, _ Yuuri got the hint that maybe Victor was still wearing too much clothing because he started to fiddle around with the waistband of his slacks.  Things were progressing; Victor wanted to shed those damn clothes, but Yuuri kept kissing him, kept touching him, and he didn’t want to break contact.  He could feel the partner’s excited heartbeat within the kisses and within the slight tremble he felt from the hand from time to time as they explored each other, but it was fine.  Everything was fine, everything was leading in the right direction; everything felt amazing, another chapter in the passionate story they were creating together.

 

“Bictoru….”

 

Kisses and touches grew more insistent, and Victor covered Yuuri’s hand once again to guide him inside the thin fabric that separated flesh from flesh.  With a gasp into his mouth, Yuuri finally touched the naked private skin, and a jolt of desire surged anew, strengthening Victor’s need and making it almost burn within his partner’s hand.  Yuuri pulled his body in an unpredictable rhythm caused by the obstruction of clothing, but he soon began to find his way. Victor shifted so he was completely under the younger man, trying to wrest away the offending pants as Yuuri worked him over with his soft palm and sucked his pectoral until Victor shuddered toward the tingling he felt from all those connected nerve endings racing toward the ground zero of Yuuri’s hand encircled around him.  Heated kisses and rushed breaths followed and then one hip was free from both waistbands. Oh, this was delicious! He could feel Yuuri growing hard again as he worked a grind on his leg; this guy definitely had stamina, and maybe he wanted what Victor wanted too, and, God, could he get it? He didn’t  _ know _ !   Victor had thought he would have to take the lead, but there seemed to be a multitude of switches within this beautiful man that, once flipped, any other bets were completely cast off.   He pushed himself into Yuuri’s hand and the grip tightened and the rhythm increased. Dear Lord, he was good with his hand, and Victor wanted him so badly, wanted him to take charge after all, wanted to be killed by Death by Thighs, wanted to be kissed and bitten and tugged and pulled, wanted to change the ending of this sexy story and have Yuuri take him instead; he wanted to come with that sexy thing inside him and,  _ goddamnit _ :   “Yuuri,” he ground out, voice rough and full of the heady lust that had taken root within his entire body, “take these pants off and  _ fuck _ me...”

 

A gasp accompanied by a rough stroking of his length was followed by Yuuri’s body collapsing upon his chest like a dead weight. 

 

_ What the hell?! _

 

“Y-yuuri?”  he whispered haggardly, but there was no movement except for the ragged-turned-on-breaths from his own lungs under the weight of the partner, the black hair plastered in crazy directions upon his chest.   Yuuri’s hand was still on him, but the grip had slackened into a caress and not the needful tug that Victor had so desperately wanted. 

 

_ No response _ .  

 

What the actual fuck?  Oh no. Oh, no-oh-no-oh- _ no _ !  Did he have a fucking heart attack?!  “Yuuri!” he called with a stronger voice, now worried.  Was he going to be sick? Did he suddenly decide that enough was enough?   Did he just pass out drunk?  _ Now?! _

 

_ DId Yuuri not want to sleep with him?! _

 

Shit.   _ Shit! _

 

Victor grabbed him by the shoulders and raised him from his chest; Yuuri was breathing evenly, and his eyes were closed, or, at least Victor thought they were because he couldn’t see past the thick black strands of haphazard hair.  “Yuuri,” he said firmly, but he got no indication that he was heard at all.  _ Nothing!  _  A shot of panic coursed through him; what if Yuuri had alcohol poisoning?  Would he have to call for a medic? And then, the medic would come into the room and see  _ what _ ?!  A naked, passed out Japanese man and a mostly naked and fully aroused Russian celebrity,  _ man _ ,  in a room where the bed looked as though it had been a not-quite-survivor of World War Three?!  Oh shit. Oh.  _ Shit! _

 

“Yuuri, wake up,”  Victor gasped, shaking him a little in an effort to discern the actual level of the emergency.  Then, he saw it. A little smile crossed Yuuri’s lips. Okay. He probably wasn’t poisoned. Victor probably didn’t need to call for a medic.  Probably. He hoped. But-

 

Was Yuuri... _ sleeping?! _

 

_ No one _ had ever fallen asleep right before going to bed with him!  Was he really that  _ boring _ ?!  Ohgodohgodohgod...this was crazy.  This was ridiculous. This was  _ mortifying!  _  This would be fucking  _ hilarious _ if only it was not happening to _him_. 

 

Breathe.   It can’t be about himself right now; right now he had to worry about Yuuri.

 

He’d be fine, right?  He was exhausted. He was drunk.  They both were. Okay.

 

Victor moved to gently reverse their positions in bed, still breathing hard and trying to ignore the frustrated tightening that was blossoming in his groin as he lay Yuuri on his back.  Even in sleep, Yuuri’s body melted like hot glass into the mold of mattress and pillow, the black hair appearing like spilled ink on the white fabric, the flushed skin smattered with kiss marks now beginning to pale as though it was the wax and wane of the cycle of the moon.  

 

“Oyasumi...na...sai...Bic-to-ru…”

 

Okay.  Calm down.  Think, Nikiforov.  This wasn’t that bad.  It wasn’t. If Yuuri was sort of talking, it really wasn’t that bad.  Right? 

 

Yeah, just tell that to his  _ completely _ freaked-out-and-drunk-and-sexually-frustrated brain.

 

_ This wasn’t right at all! _

 

Oh, good God, of  _ course _ it was that bad!  What the hell did he  _ say? _ !  Victor hoped that it wasn’t  “Call me an ambulance”.  _ Should _ he call an ambulance?!  Was Yuuri all right? 

 

Victor rose from the bed and slid the screwed up sheets out from under Yuuri’s weight and covered him, placing a hand upon his brow.  Great. What the hell did he think that would tell him? Of course he was hot and sweaty, of course he felt feverish because, well, wasn’t he about to screw him within an inch of his life just like Victor had wanted?!  Yuuri had been hard as hell too and he managed to fucking pass out anyway!  _ What the actual fuck?! _

 

Suddenly, Victor became hyper-aware of everything the room: the half-parted curtains which allowed for the lights from outside to create dull shadow play over the floor, and the littered contents of Yuuri’s toiletry bag, and the toppled empty shot glasses, and their scattered clothes, and the phone mostly face-down on the floor and still half-dangling from the charging cord plugged into the lamp-base on the nightstand, and the almost empty bottle of vodka standing precariously near the edge of the small furnishing, and his half-opened wallet, and the unused condom...the place was a  _ wreck _ and reeked of booze and poor decision-making...

 

Oh God.

 

Was he really doing this  _ again?! _

 

No.  

 

It was different.  Yuuri was different.   _ He _ was different this time.  Right? 

 

Or was that just what Victor wanted to believe?

 

Shit.  He was way too drunk and worked up to try and evaluate anything calmly.  He knew it. He sat back down on the bed; the dip in the mattress causing a murmur from the other occupant but no other reaction.  

 

“Yuuri…,” he called gently.  Nothing. Goddamnit, this guy was  _ fucking great _ at dissing him.

 

The younger man turned a little but did not look like he was about to open his eyes.  What should he do now? With an exhalation that was somewhere in between pissed-off worry and frustration-laced concern, he ran his hands through his hair and refastened his slacks.

 

He surveyed the damage of the room and gathered his wallet from the nightstand and picked up Yuuri’s phone and put it on the furniture where it promptly fell right off again until he made a bigger space for it by removing the vodka bottle.  

 

He sat back down upon the edge of the bed, bottle in hand, eyes on Yuuri’s face looking for any signs of a real crisis, ears trained on his deep, even, sleeping breaths.   Should he stay? Should he go? What the hell was he supposed to actually  _ do _ in this situation?  When previous drunken nights came to whatever end, the other person would find themselves summarily dismissed with fake promises and a phone number tossed into the garbage or flushed down the toilet before a scalding shower and restless unfulfilled sleep.  

 

At least when he’d kicked a man out of his room, it was always after they got theirs.  What did he just get? Did he even  _ know?! _

 

But, this was not his room.  This was Yuuri’s room. It wasn’t like he could throw the man out of his own room, nevermind that he was already sleeping like a fucking  _ rock _ and apparently gave no fucks about leaving him high and dry and-

 

Oh.

 

Oh.

 

_ Oh no _ .

 

_ He was the one being kicked out! _

 

A fresh surge of anger and panic washed over him; was he  _ actually  _ as stupid as Yakov always proclaimed?  Was he actually that ridiculously foolish for allowing himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, this would be something more than a one-night stand?!

 

Should he have just slept with Chris instead of impulsively falling fucking head over heels in  _ whatever this was  _  with a complete and utter  _ stranger _ ?!  

 

While there would likely have been regrets with Chris, what he was feeling now was worse than regret:  it was  _ loss _ .

 

Oh God, he suddenly felt like he wasn’t drunk enough to deal with  _ that _ intrusive thought or the telltale sting that started to surface in the corners of his eyes.  

 

No.  

 

Stop.

 

He still had the bottle by its neck in the grip of his left hand.  He drank the rest as Yuuri peacefully slumbered because: Fuck It.

 

Once he downed the remainder of the spirit, he flopped down on his back on the end of the bed by Yuuri’s blanket-covered feet and let the empty bottle join the mess on the floor where it rolled and landed against one of the discarded shot glasses with a soft clink.   After what he thought was a short while, he glanced over at the alarm clock on the nightstand. Shit. He’d been laying there with an empty brain for a fucking hour already!

 

Now what?  Should he just let himself pass out too?

 

Sleep was so tempting...but then what would happen if Yuuri awoke to him laying at the foot of the bed in a pathetically disheveled hungover trainwreck?  Would Yuuri feel bad and try to comfort him with a “Hey, um, sorry about last night. We don’t have to talk about it ever again, okay?” Or would he just get mad?  It wasn’t as though Victor was invited to stay the night, no matter that he had certainly thought the invitation was implied. He didn’t know Yuuri at all, and he didn’t know why, but he had the thought that Yuuri Katsuki was the type of person that would require an actual invitation be issued and responded to before he would allow someone to spend the night with him.  What if Yuuri woke up and actually threw him out?!

 

No.  

 

Even though he was back to being drunk as fuck again now, he knew he wouldn’t be able to handle that with the morning’s sobriety.

 

So, instead, he put his shirt back on along with his shoes, and he picked up Yuuri’s scattered clothing and hung it in the tiny hotel closet.  He cleared the floor of the glasses and bottles, leaving the remaining unopened liter of Evian on the table next to Yuuri’s eyeglasses before he quietly pushed the room service cart into the corridor.  When he re-entered the room his breath caught in his throat again.

 

Yuuri had shifted in the bed and his head lay upon the pillow, one of his hands near his lips and his hair splayed out like a fan of the most delicately threaded black silk.  

 

Peaceful.

 

Beautiful.

 

Like a male version of Sleeping Beauty from all those fairy tales Victor always used to enjoy but had now mostly forgotten because they never ever came true.

 

Happily Ever After was a complete and utter lie told to children until they grew up and realized that the rest of world and a fuck-ton of the people who lived in it could be pretty damn shitty most of the time.  

 

Time to get out of here.

 

Victor had his hand upon the doorknob, ready to turn it and make this night disappear when he heard a rustling from the bed that stopped him in his tracks.

 

“Bi…”

 

Wait.  What? He shook his head.  No. Now he was definitely hearing things.  He was drunk. 

 

“Bic….tor...u…”

 

Oh, God.  He really heard it.   He slowly turned to face the bed and saw that Yuuri was still soundly asleep, but now he had such a soft and relaxed expression displayed within his refined features as he lay upon his side.  His hair performed some kind of minor miracle and, for the moment, was not covering his beautiful face.  

 

Maybe he didn't have to deny it.  Maybe he shouldn't deny anything when it came to this _one_ person of the world.

 

_ Yuuri Katsuki had set his heart on fire. _

 

Life and Love.

 

What if this was his one last chance to find those two elusive L words he’d ignored for so long?  He’d glimpsed it with this man, he was sure of it, and maybe it was the vodka thinking for him now, but maybe he shouldn’t care if it was.

 

Fine then.

 

He went back to the table and took up the cheap plastic complimentary pen and the tiniest complimentary memo pad he’d ever seen and wrote every single fucking way for Yuuri to contact him in the morning on it:  Instagram, Twitter, Facebook, VKontakte,  email,  _ and _ his personal cell with a quick note to text or call him directly when he awoke.

 

He took a breath and signed his name and gave one last look to his Sleeping Beauty before quietly leaving Yuuri’s temporary palace.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *this story might be a train wreck lol just sayin'*
> 
> Thank you for reading and for all the amazing support. I'm really grateful for all the love in all its forms!
> 
> ~C


	10. Chapter Ten

Victor awoke to the sound of Yuri Plisetsky mumbling in his sleep and tossing and turning restlessly.  He turned over in his own bed to face the other direction from the boy’s fitful slumber and he ran his fingers through the side of his hair that wasn’t touching the not-soft-enough pillow.   He was hungover, his head was pounding, and his foot was stabbing him with pain to remind him that he was fucking old as shit. No wonder he woke up earlier than planned with it hurting him like that.

 

It was 7 AM, the sky beyond the thin curtains of the room was the cold dreary gray that came with Russian winters.

 

And he was in bed alone.  

 

With a sleep-talking teenager five feet away who kept rustling in his bed clothes like he was beating the shit out of someone.  

 

The kid has issues.  Oh well.

 

He sighed and closed his eyes again to will the throbbing headache and slight nausea to subside.  It didn’t work.

 

It only got worse when he replayed the previous night’s activities in his mind.  He’d been blown away at the Banquet, stunned, and, would he dare to believe, utterly smitten.  He had left Yuuri’s room feeling a bit of hope, but now that almost-daylight was upon him, he wasn’t sure he could cling to it as easily as he did with half a liter of vodka to fuel the sentiment.

 

Victor reluctantly sat up in bed, sore, and not in the way he expected he might have been when he woke up this morning.  How the fuck could this have happened? Was he really that pathetic that he couldn’t even keep the interest of one man for one fucking night anymore?

 

What the hell went  _ wrong _ ?  They had made a connection at the banquet,  didn’t they? They had flirted all night, danced like a couple, and they had made out pretty damn scandalously, culminating in a fucking blow job in Yuuri’s room, right?

 

Sure, logic told him that Yuuri just passed out from the massive amounts of drinking he had done.  But,  _ seriously _ ?!  If he was that drunk, he shouldn’t have been able to get it up, and especially not  _ twice _ , right?   Who passes out when they were able to get rock hard again even after having what Victor assumed was a  _ great _ orgasm?  Who the hell passes out  _ before _ being about to sleep with Victor Fucking Nikiforov?  He didn’t get it. At. All.

 

He swung his legs out from under the covers and reached for a t-shirt to cover his upper body.  He tugged a little at the drawstring of his yoga pants; with little Yuri in the room it wasn’t like he could sleep in the nude like usual, especially going to bed in the frustrated state he had been in, not able to have the release he had ached to have but didn’t want to risk taking care of in the bathroom with a kid sleeping just outside the door and with the suspected thin walls.  But he had gotten too warm since Yuri had turned up the heat to max, so he’d lost the shirt at some point anyway. He tentatively put his stricken foot down on the carpet, wincing toward the pain that even the slightest pressure shot through the arch. Shit. Placing his weight on his other foot, he took one look at the other bed to make sure little Yuri was still sleeping before he hopped one-footed all the way to the bathroom and shut the door as he leaned over the sink.  Keeping the foot raised, he fished out the painkillers from his travel kit and cupped his hand under the stream of the sink for water to swallow them down. Damn it. He should have grabbed a bottled water; who knew what was in the water coming from that fucking tap.

 

He glanced in the mirror and he thought that he looked like absolute  _ shit. _

 

Maybe it was a good thing he didn’t wake up with Yuuri after all considering that it would probably take his most potent face mask to correct the travesty that was staring back at him from his reflection.   He reached into his travel kit once more and pulled out his shaving balm and razor, the tube that held the creme for the mask, and a headband to hold his bangs back. He shaved the slight stubble carefully, not wanting to further mar his face in any way before he slathered the mask on so it could set while he brushed his teeth and hopped back into the room for a bottled water and his goddamn orthopaedic insert.  

 

He peeked outside the bathroom door; thank God little Yuri was a somewhat heavy sleeper, if fitful, so that he didn’t wake up when Victor limped his sorry old-as-fuck-ass to his suitcase and the hopeful relief of his insert in a pair of sneakers until the pain pills kicked in.  He succeeded in pulling the dreaded thing out of his dress shoes, and he stuffed it into the sneaker and slid his foot in, biting his lip the whole way until his foot was flat and the pain spread beyond the arch to the whole of his foot. Breathe. Better. 

 

He skipped putting on the other shoe for the moment, retrieved two bottles of Evian and his phone, and walked gingerly back to the bathroom to wait for the mask to do its magic.  The last thing he wanted was for that little brat to make some snarky-ass comments about it, which he no doubt would, as he had done so in the past. Victor was  _ really _ not in the mood to deal with him.

 

Not only was he pissed about his foot, and still a little shocked and frustrated over the fact that he didn’t actually get laid the night before, he also sort of had this nagging worry.  What if he shouldn’t have left? What if Yuuri really did have alcohol poisoning and he left him there? What if he was drowning in his own puke right this very second? 

 

What if Yuuri didn’t really want him for anything beyond a night of drunken sex? 

 

_ “Be my coach, Bictoru~~~!” _

  
  


How in the hell was he supposed to do  _ that? _

 

Victor was pretty sure that “be my coach” was simply the the result of the ravings of a skater with a Champagne-soaked brain.  So why did those four words feel like a sledgehammer capable of shattering his skater’s glass heart?

 

It wasn’t as though Victor was  _ retired  _ or anything…

 

No.  There was no need to think about  _ that  _ while his foot was stabbing him and while every ache and pain was magnified by a hangover.  No.

 

He should go back there.  He should go check on him; he knew where the room was, he had been an invited guest, mostly, the night before, right?  He could bring Yuuri some coffee, and they could chat and clear everything up, and maybe plan a date and start over, right?  Yes. Yes! He’d do that. He would do it as soon as he didn’t look like a fucking strobe-light-honey. 

 

The tentative plan cheered him up a little and a light pat of fingertips to his cheek told him the mask was set; he could feel the blissful tightening that was occurring underneath it which would hopefully erase the puffiness of his excessive drinking and lack of restorative sleep.  He took a breath and drank both bottles of water down in a few deep sips each. He picked up his phone; maybe Yuuri had messaged him somewhere already? He checked his email and all of his social media accounts, his voicemail, and his texts. Nothing from Yuuri. He refreshed everything.  Still nothing.

 

Well, to be fair, it was ridiculously early since it was nearly 3:30 AM when Victor made the fucking walk of shame back to his own room and it was still only half-past seven.  It was more than reasonable to think that Yuuri would not be up yet. He’d check again later. Like maybe in ten minutes. Or fifteen. No, ten. Maybe every ten minutes.

 

Shit, what the hell was he doing?  Maybe he’d just find him on social media and message him to call him when he got up.  That was a much better plan than sitting around on the edge of the bathtub waiting for a phone call or a message like some lovestruck teenage girl.  He was 20-whatever fucking years old for fuck’s sake.

 

Fine.

 

He opened Instagram again and searched for Yuuri Katsuki.  Great! He had an account! Victor immediately followed him and then started checking his posts. Yeah.  All fucking  _ five _ of them.  Holy shit. They were from like a year ago!  Did this guy not use Insta? He sent him a direct message anyway, and tried to see if he was searchable as a tag.  

 

He was, but just about everything was in fucking Japanese and translations were  _ craptastic _ .  Of course.

 

He was mentioned in a shitload of posts from some other guy whose name Victor vaguely recognized as an up-and-coming skating talent from Thailand, but most were sort of stealth shots, all tagged with #You’reWelcome,ThirstyFansOfYuuriKatsuki.

 

Well.  That was interesting. The scroll on that account was massive so he didn’t spend time looking through it all, but he switched to a few other social media apps, even Googling “What is Japan’s Most Popular Social Media App?” until he realized that, even if he found it, he wouldn’t be able to understand a goddamn thing.

 

Shit.  This guy had like  _ zero _ social media activity.  Wow. Victor knew he was a dinosaur about tech in some ways but he always made sure to upload things for his fans.  Why wouldn’t Yuuri do the same? He was the top skater in Japan, wasn’t he? Surely he must have fans. Hmm. He’d have to figure that out later.

 

After leaving another Instagram message, because the year-old posts were, amazingly, the most recent of all the social media accounts he could dig up, he decided to follow the Thai skater to see if he would upload another Yuuri pic.  He drew the line at following the Thirsty Fan tag, because no. No.

 

He checked his flight times; they wouldn’t be flying back to St. Petersburg until very late evening after the ex-skate, so there was plenty of time. 

 

Wait a minute…

 

Right!  The ex-skate!  

 

He had completely forgotten about it!  He’d see Yuuri at the ex-skate for sure; even if he wasn’t performing, he’d attend, right?  For his own part, he knew he’d have to use his alternate program so as not to stress his foot any further before a complete once-over by the doctor, so he’d only be skating a one-minute, thirty second deal, but after that, he surely would have enough time to take Yuuri to dinner before his flight, right?!

 

Great!  But, he wanted to see him off-ice first, especially since it might be the case that Yuuri might not perform in the ex-skate anyway due to his 6th place finish which would require him to pay the skate-fee since he didn’t medal.   Victor could wait until about ten, then, for coffee and breakfast, unless, of course, Yuuri messaged him sooner than that, then he could at least buy the coffee and go knocking. That should be fine. 

 

But...

 

What if Yuuri would be embarrassed about passing out?  What if he didn’t see that Victor left him his personal phone number and all of his social media accounts?  He’ll call or text right? Of course he will. Clearly, he was into it. Drunk, but, goddamnit, he was  _ into  _ it right up until the end.   God, Victor couldn’t wait until ten for coffee; he needed it now.

 

He checked the clock on his phone and he needed about ten more minutes with the mask on before he could get in the shower and rinse it off and bathe.  He decided to start answering some of the congratulatory messages from his fans when his phone buzzed with a text. 

 

Was it Yuuri?

 

No.  Chris.  Of course.

 

“I know you’re awake and I need coffee stat.  And a full report. Hit me back when you get this.”

 

Shit.

 

“I’m awake but not ready.  Give me an hour.” Send.

 

Buzz.  “Wrong answer.  Gotta meet Josef in a little over an hour.  Cafe across the street. I’ll give you 20 mins to make yourself beautiful.”

 

Victor chuckled in spite of himself before sending the “OK” in reply.  He couldn’t feel as much tingling now, so he figured the mask was probably out of magic anyway.  He turned on the water as hot as it could go and grabbed a couple of other skin and hair care products out of his travel kit, noting that the shampoo and conditioner were already in the shower because apparently Yuri helped himself to borrowing them.  Jeez. He should just admit he fucking likes using them instead of sneaking around like it was some kind of taboo thing. The kid has issues. Yuri’s birthday was in March; maybe he could just buy the kid a shit-ton of it and put it in plain bottles so no one would ever accuse the boy of emulating him.  That could work. 

 

He filed that plan away and bathed in record time, for him, patting himself dry and inspecting the effectiveness of the mask.  Thank God, he didn’t look like shit anymore. And those little kiss marks at the base of his neck didn’t look too shabby either.  He rather liked those, smiling toward the memory of whose lips and teeth had put them there, but he decided to wear a shirt with a collar anyway when he got dressed.

 

With a marked sense of relief toward his much-improved appearance,  he dried his hair, wincing at the noise, hoping that it wouldn’t wake Yuri, and he dried it until just damp, not wanting to prolong the volume.  He stepped out into the room, the cool of the room proper invigorating him after the scalding shower; Yuri had settled down into a deeper sleep and Victor gently covered him with the blankets he had kicked off.   Yeah, the kid had issues, but a lot of it wasn’t exactly his fault. Victor got that. At least he didn’t need to catch a cold besides.

 

With that task complete, he pulled on his clothes and put the insert into his boots.  Whatever it was they were giving him for the pain this time, it sure worked fast. His foot almost felt tolerable walking on it, but he didn’t want to test Yakov by not using the insert either anyway.

 

He left little Yuri a note saying to where he was going and he donned his coat and scarf. He grabbed wallet, phone, keycard, and sunglasses in concession to the fact that he was still quite hungover, but at least the pain meds helped with that too.

 

He made it out past the lobby and into the crisp cold air, taking a breath of relief that he hadn’t run across too many fans in the short distance from the lobby to the cafe across the street.  He walked in and gave a cheerful wave to Chris before stepping up to order a black coffee; his taste buds really wanted a latte, but his hangover dictated the choices this morning. Black coffee with a drop of cream would be the additional medicine he needed to snap him the hell out of whatever happened last night.  

 

His beverage ready and the drop of cream added, Victor put the lid on the cup and made his way over to Chris, steeling himself for the million questions his friend was guaranteed to ask.  What should he say? Should he just play it off and be charmingly vague? Or should he just tell the truth and suffer the consequences? Ah. One look toward his friend told him already; Chris wanted his full report.  Shit.

 

He slid into the seat and rustled up a chirpy “Good Morning, mon ami!” before he saw a smug little look cross those green eyes, vibrant even from behind the frames of his glasses.  He’d been found out, more-or-less, so he dropped the fake smile and didn’t even bother to take off his sunglasses. Even if it was gray outside, it was still too bright.

 

“My, my, that is  _ not  _ the face of someone who got well and truly fucked last night,”  Chris quietly drawled in a flirty almost-whisper. “Unless, of course, he actually made you do some  _ work _ and top him?”

 

“Oh don’t start,”  Victor grumbled, removing the lid of his coffee and blowing on it before taking a tentative sip before he decided it was still too hot.  

 

“You’re kidding, right?”

 

“About what.”

 

“Take your damn Chanels off and look me in the eye, Nikiforov.”

 

“Ugh.  I’m hungover and blotchy and I look like shit.  No.”

 

“Victor ‘I Woke Up Like This’ Nikiforov  _ never _ looks like shit to the rest of we lowly plebeians.”

 

“Fine,” he spat petulantly, removing his sunglasses and squinting until his eyes adjusted.  “Happy now? I’m  _ hungover. _ ”

 

Chris studied him for a moment and then he raised his hand to cover his mouth and his shoulders started to tremble slightly.  

 

“What?”  Victor snapped.

 

“Oh my God are you  _ kidding _ me?  Did you seriously not close the deal last night?  Holy shit. Did you get stood  _ up _ ?!”   
  


“I did  _ not _ !”  Victor retorted with a pout for the ages.  “It...just didn’t happen like that, okay? That’s all.”  That should be the safest response with the least risk of further humiliation.   _ If _ Chris would drop it.

 

Which, of course he wouldn’t.

 

“Ahh~ and to think what we could have been doing to each other.  All. Night. Long.”

 

“Chris-”

 

“But nooo~,”  Chris interrupted, “You got mushy over our Darling Yuuri and his Lovely Dancing, and ditched a sure thing with me for a ‘no’.  This is  _ rich _ .”

 

“I didn’t get  _ mushy _ !”

 

“Oh, but you did, cheri, you did.  How does this even happen? I need full details now because I can’t  _ wait _ to hear how you could have possibly managed not to go to bed with that guy last night.”

 

Victor groaned.  He tested his coffee again, and found that it was just right.  He took a long sip from the cup, feeling the warmth of it travel down his throat and all the way into his belly.  “He...had me dare him to stop the elevator and he kissed me.”

 

“Oooh.  Saucy. I like it.”

 

“It wasn’t that kind of kiss.  It was...sweet. So I kissed him back.”

 

“Obviously.”

 

“We sort of got interrupted, but it was okay, you know?  We were having fun. And then he wanted to drink vodka shots, so we did.”

 

Chris whistled.  “Damn. Just how drunk did he think he needed to be to sleep with you…?”

 

“Oh shut up!  You wanted the details, asshole,”  Victor complained. Then he looked at Chris’s face with alarm.  “Do you think he wouldn’t sleep with me unless he was drunk? As in, like he’d need to be shitfaced to actually sleep with a man?  Oh my God,” he moaned, putting his elbow on the table and covering his face with his hand as it rested upon it. “I didn’t want to think that.”

 

His friend chuckled a little.  “I don’t think that’s the problem.  It was probably more like he needed liquid courage.”

 

“That much of it?  I was totally into it.  He didn’t need to be nervous or worried or whatever…”

 

“He didn’t  _ need _ to be but he probably was.”

 

“Not the whole time,”  Victor said quietly. “He’s an amazing kisser,” he added almost dreamily, putting a finger to his lips before he shook his head and recovered himself.  “It was going really well, and we were on the bed together, things were happening, we were both so drunk, but things were happening, and-”

 

“Whoawhoawhoawhoa  _ whoa _ .   Hold it right there,”  Chris commanded. “You can’t just say ‘things’ and think I’ll let that slide.  I need to know everything about that little hottie you ditched me for.”

 

Victor exhaled.  “He is hot,” he agreed.

 

“Right.  And you wouldn’t share, and I’m kinda pissed off because I am  _ sure _ that I would have been able to tap that last night and screw you too.   But, I’m not so pissed off that I cannot enjoy the absolute humor and irony of this situation.  How long has it been since someone told you ‘no’?” he asked with a light laugh. “Ever?”

 

Victor pouted again.  “He didn’t say no. In fact, he said ‘yes’: so there.”

 

“Oh my Lord that is even  _ worse _ !  What the hell took you so long then?  As soon as you heard that ‘yes’ you should have been all over that shit!”  he scolded, clicking his tongue. 

 

“I  _ was _ all over that shit!”   
  


“Then:  What. Happened?”

 

Victor took a breath and told him about how gorgeous Yuuri was, how flirty he was, how amazing everything was.

 

“Shirts:  on or off,”  Chris demanded to know.

 

“Off.”

 

“Pants:  on or off.”

 

Victor put his head in his hands with elbows on the table once more, threading his fingers through his hair.  “His: Off. Mine:...almost off.”

 

Chris laughed  _ again _ .  “See?  There’s your problem.  Hey, Victor, did you know?  You need to have your pants off if you want to get laid.  I say this as a Public Service Announcement.”

 

“Oh will you  _ please _ shut up?”

 

“He  _ pole-danced  _ for you!”

 

Victor looked up from his hands.  “That was  _ your _ idea I am sure,” he spat.  “Why didn’t you tell me he could do something like that?!  I thought we were friends.”

 

Chris reclined in his chair and held his hands up in surrender.  “Now wait just a minute. I thought for sure I’d give you the best show and you’d be all over me by the time we got back to my room, and it would be a sexy bonus if Yuuri came along.  When I told him what I wanted to do for the dance battle, I did  _ not _ expect him to say he could do it.”

 

Victor narrowed his eyes a little, assessing the truth of Chris’s explanation.  “Fine. I believe you that you didn’t know. Maybe you could have touched him a little less though.  You enjoyed it way too much.”

 

“Oh, but you knew that was for your benefit, mon petit voyeur,”  he responded easily, leaning forward enough by getting up a little from his chair so he could whisper into Victor’s ear.  “Just how hard did you get watching that, hm? Yuuri was so warm and beautiful up there when I had my hands all over him.”

 

“Sit down,”  Victor said seriously, and Chris did, knowing he’d touched just the right nerve and was probably right on the border of taking the teasing just a bit too far.   “I knew what you were trying to do. And I know we had plans together, but after seeing that-”

 

Chris just laughed again.  “Don’t think I sat up all night pining away for you or anything.  I saw how you looked at him, I’m not stupid. But that didn’t stop me from testing you to make sure,” he added with a wink, “especially if there was even a slight chance of having all three of us together at once.  Who wouldn’t want that? We’re all gorgeous, especially you.”

 

Victor exhaled, releasing a bit of the tension that had begun to resurface with the memory of the pole dance, and toward the sound of Chris’s voice that always managed to make even the most mundane of things sound ridiculously sexy, never mind when he was actually talking dirty.  Jeez. 

 

“But,” the Swiss skater continued with that look he got when he was about to be a savage little bitch,  “since I’ve flirted with him before and I got absolutely  _ nowhere _ , I thought it would be a little fun to see what would happen if the one-and-only Victor tried to snag that cute, oblivious little bunny.  I guess nothing much, eh, mon ami? I can’t believe I left him to you... _ clearly _ that was my lapse in judgement thanks to the Champagne.”

 

Victor knew he was being overly dramatic when he gasped to declare that he was offended, but he didn’t care, and, of course, Chris only laughed at him.   _ Again _ .  Well fine.  If he wants to be like that.  “I kissed him. I touched him.  I had him hard and wanting me and look at this!” he demanded in a hot whisper, pulling at the collar of his shirt to display the kiss marks Yuuri had left on his neck.  “ _ Clearly _ , I got further with him than you ever did!”

 

“Yet, I managed to go down to the hotel bar after dropping the Princess off, order myself another White Russian, so to speak, and I at least got a blow job out of it.  Tell me, cheri, did  _ you _ get a blow job last night?  Give one?”

 

Victor just groaned again, and heard more snickers coming from his friend.  “Stop  _ laughing _ at me!” he breathed dramatically.  “You’re supposed to be my friend!”

 

“I  _ am _ your friend; I gave you a  _ prime _ opportunity last night instead of taking it for myself, so sue me if I figured you had it in the bag and I had my own fun instead.  Not my fault you couldn’t cash in,” he sputtered between more giggles. 

 

Fine.  Victor could be a savage little bitch too.  “Okay. I did ‘cash in’ a little if you  _ must _ know.”

 

“Ah, cheri, you were holding out on me you naughty thing.  Tell me...was he shy in bed?”

 

“Well...I guess i didn’t completely cash in,” he said with a voice barely above a whisper,  “but I certainly made him feel _great_ when I was going down on him. Jealous much?”

 

“Hmmm...what I got was  _ very _ good too.  I don’t know if I’m jealous or not because it was so long ago since you did that for me that I can’t even recall if you were good at it.”

 

“Bullshit,”  Victor snapped.  “Of course you remember!”   How could Chris forget something that happened more than a few times before, the last time in his own bedroom in his own damn condo?  He was just teasing. Victor was really good at oral. Really good. No one had ever complained. No one had ever told him to stop. No one had ever….passed out drunk right when he was about to sleep with him.  Oh shit. Was he really out of practice or something?!

 

Chris was nonplussed as he shrugged his shoulders.  “I wonder if our Darling Yuuri would give you a gold medal in blow jobs,” he commented casually, sipping his latte.  “I’d give a +3 GOE to my company from last night.”

 

“There is  _ nothing  _ wrong with my technique!”

 

“My my, the lady doth protest too much methinks,”  he retorted with a laugh. “Are you feeling insecure about your...ahem...performance?”

 

Victor made a scandalized noise and almost choked on his sip of coffee.  “You’re  _ insufferable _ !”

 

“Fine, there is nothing wrong with your technique and I do remember that.  Happy, cheri?”

 

“Not really,”  Victor grumbled.

 

“Are you actually thinking Yuuri didn’t enjoy it?” he asked incredulously, laughing at him again which caused another hardcore pout that Victor did nothing to conceal.  “I highly doubt it. You’re very good at what you do. Of course, I’m much better at it than you are; just ask my friend from last night.”

 

“Hmph.”

 

“What was I supposed to do?  You bailed with Yuuri after he got me all worked up On. The.  _ Pole _ .”  The flash of memory made Victor’s face involuntarily heat and Chris saw it right away and laughed at him again.    “I had to do something, or some _ one _ ,”  he goaded playfully.   “And that was all your fault.”

 

“And you always like to say  _ I’m _ the whore when you are picking up a stranger in a bar?  How  _ gauche! _ ”  Victor declared, continuing in his petulant air.

 

Chris was not deterred.  Of course he wasn’t. “No, you are a  _ slut _ , not a whore,” he shot back with a laugh.   “There’s a difference.” 

 

“What?!”  

 

“And my company from last night was  _ not _ a stranger,”  Chris declared right back, not bothering to enlighten him on what could possibly be the difference between being a slut or a whore, and smiling deviously with mischief in those green eyes.   “I struck up a lovely conversation about Yuuri’s and my pole dancing with Anatoly, and we hit it off well enough to ease the tension.”

 

“What?!”  Victor repeated, the shock not even put on.  “You slept with our statistician?” he whispered incredulously.

 

“Bitch, please.  Did you not hear ‘blow job’?  That’s as far as it went. Besides, that guy’s been low-key lusting after you since joining Yakov’s staff, and probably since before when he used to compete in junior pairs before he quit to go to college.  Don’t tell me you didn’t know that.”

 

Oh.  Yeah, he sort of knew that.  But, really! Victor knew that when he had to go get the stats on the competitors for the next competition, all he was going to see when he arrived at the statistician’s office would be Anatoly sucking Chris off.  God. Chris showed no mercy. 

 

“So,”  Chris continued after taking the final sip of his latte, and probably having figured out that Victor was still trying to erase the visual of their statistician and his friend together from his brain,  “back to your charming little tale of unsuccessful conquest...you still haven’t told me why you didn’t get laid.”

 

Ugh.  He didn’t want to say it.  He didn’t. He felt like Chris was really enjoying this torture way too much.

 

“Well?”  Chris prodded.

 

Fine.  Fine! He was the one with Yuuri’s kiss marks on him.  He knew Yuuri wanted to sleep with him. So what? The alcohol just caught up with him at a really inopportune time.  It happens! Lord knew it had even happened between him and Chris sometimes where they would just get too tired or too drunk to actually do anything.  It’s fine. It happens! He still made him come for goodness sake. That wasn’t all bad, right? Except for the part where he was so turned on that, when it ended abruptly, he was so frustrated that it actually fucking hurt. Shit.  But he made him come, and he looked so peaceful when he passed out that Victor didn’t want to wake him, even though he tried to, because he was fucking gorgeous. Yuuri enjoyed it, right? He wanted more, his body just gave out. Maybe Victor had made him feel so good that he fainted, and maybe the alcohol didn’t have anything to do with it at all!  But, wait, was that worse? No? Yes? He didn’t know. But, he was a gentleman not to try anything else, right?! Of course he did all the right things. He didn’t want it to be a one night stand anyway! There would be other nights, other dates, dinners, movies, shopping to replace Yuuri’s various crimes against fashion, long walks on a tropical beach somewhere-

 

Okay, maybe he was getting a bit ahead of himself, but he wanted things to be different with Yuuri, and Chris was Not. Helping.

 

He took a breath, bolstered by his inner pep talk.  Fine. 

 

“So, you know, I was doing that…”

 

“And?”

 

“And he…”

 

“I get it, I get it, he got his.”

 

“Yeah, God he was beautiful!”

 

Chris hummed in agreement.  “Oh I bet...I don’t suppose there was any camera action or anything…”

 

Victor uttered a disapproving sound.  “Of course there  _ wasn’t.   _ He’s not  _ you _ ,”  he snapped.

 

“Hmm,”  the younger of the two friends murmured in a sort of wistful sound.   “A pity. So, then it was your turn, no?”

 

Victor took another sip of coffee.  “Well...that’s sort of what I was thinking, but…” The words faltered and died out with the oncoming dread of Chris’s inevitable merciless teasing.

 

“But….?”

 

“He wanted to!  Really!” Goddamnit, why did it sound like he was fucking  _ desperate _ ?!  

 

Chris chuckled.  “Hmmm...so we’ve established that you’re a thirsty slut-”

 

“Hey!”

 

“So we’ve established that you give great oral,”  Chris amended, nonplussed, “We’ve established that Yuuri is beautiful.  We already know that you’re gorgeous,” he commented, as if checking items off a list.  “You wanted to, he wanted to...so?” the Swiss skater prodded, eyes gleaming in anticipation.

 

Victor felt his shoulders tense up, and he darted his eyes around the cafe to make sure they were being ignored.  If Victor took half a moment to think about it, which he did, and toward which Chris was becoming visibly impatient as he sat in his chair, he knew that Chris was just being Chris, and they had known each other for too long for him to tell him a lie at this point; it would just piss him off.  Well, here goes nothing.

 

“He ...sortofpassedout.”   

 

Silence.  

 

Was that goddamn  _ crickets  _ he could hear inside his hungover brain?!  

 

Oh, no.  Chris was going to have a fucking field day.  He braced himself for an explosion of laughter, but there was only more quiet.  He hadn’t realized that he had been staring into his coffee cup, and he didn’t even want to look up, but he did, stealing a glance at his friend from behind his silver bangs.  

 

Oh God.  This was worse than laughter, this was worse.  Chris looked like he was desperately teetering between trying not to laugh, going for “supportive bestie”,  and outright calling him a pathetic has-been! Oh shit. “Well now you know, so stop looking at me like that!”  

 

The dam broke and Chris couldn’t hold it in any longer.  He took his glasses off to squeeze the bridge of his nose and he laughed outright, so loudly that Victor caught people staring at them.   _ Staring!  _  Was he really a pathetic has-been?  Oh dear God. This was the  _ worst _ !

 

“Chris, people are-”

 

“Oh, cheri, I can’t!” he gasped out in interruption, “If you weren’t sitting right in front of me in person I’d swear you were pranking me.”

 

“Will you lower your voice, please?”  Victor replied seriously, after tossing cheerful waves around the cafe to satisfy the staring masses.  Why was Chris so invested in this? They’d passed out on each other plenty of times! Was it because it was  _ Yuuri _ ?  What the hell was that about?!

 

“I have to know; just what were you two  _ doing _ when he passed out?”

 

“I’m not telling you anything else,”  Victor declared; he knew he was getting huffy, but, he realized, he was probably never going to live this down.  Ever. And, Dear God, what if Chris said something to Yuuri? Oh God; the man would probably never speak to him again!  

 

“You have to,” his friend entreated, thankfully lowering his voice again.   “Look, I’ll beg. I’ll  _ beg, _ Victor.  This kind of gold only comes once in a lifetime.   Tell me just what you were doing when he passed out and then I’ll not breathe a word of this to anyone.  Swear to G-O-D God.”

 

Victor put his head in his hands once again.  “Will you really not tell  _ anyone _ ?  I...don’t care about me, but I don’t want him to be embarrassed.  You can’t say anything to Yuuri.  _ Nothing _ .”

 

He looked up and Chris’s expression was just thoughtful, amused, but thoughtful.  “Yeah, I won’t say anything to him,” he said genuinely. “You, on the other hand, I plan to remind of this occasion until we are dead.”

 

Naturally.

 

Victor emitted a melodramatic sigh and told his tale of woe, leaving out the part about his own insecurities and settling for being a Drama Queen instead because it was much easier.    When he finished, Chris was just staring at him again, trying desperately to hold in even more laughter. “Stop  _ looking _ at me like that!”

 

Chris cleared his throat and shook his head.  “All right, all right. Why didn’t you wake him up then for goodness sake?”  

 

“I tried~~!”  came the whine.  Yes. He was whining.  So what. Suck it, Chris.

 

“You...tried,” Chris repeated, swallowing another laugh.  “Oh, cheri, I’m so sorry. You have no idea how entertaining this is.”

 

“I didn’t know what to do~~,” he whined again, “I totally freaked out, like, what if he had alcohol poisoning;  I almost called an ambulance!”

 

His friend erupted once again into laughter he couldn’t control.  “I need to use one of your favorite words here: Wow~!”

 

Victor drank down the rest of his coffee.  “Okay you’ve had your fun. You can stop torturing me now.”

 

Chris’s laughter died down a little and he got that thoughtful look upon his face once more.  “You know, Victor, I do love to torture you, but it’s done out of friendship and love. You make it so easy too because you’re such a Drama Queen.”

 

“Uh-huh.”

 

Chris exhaled.  “It’s too bad. I guess you’ll just add another one to the pile of broken hearts left in your wake.”

 

What?

 

“I don’t do that,” was the reflexive response and Chris knew it was a lie but he didn’t scold him for it.

 

“If that’s how it is, then you won’t mind if I try and give it another shot with him, right?”

 

“What?!”  Victor snapped aloud.  “Of course I  _ mind _ .”

 

Uh-oh.  Chris had that cheeky smirk in fully employ. “You really have no chill this time.”

 

“Whatever.  It wasn’t like...the usual.  It was...different.”

 

Chris was studying him again, and he had that look of mild disapproval he sometimes got when he’d had enough of Victor being Drama Queen.  “Are you seriously thinking of pursuing him?”

 

“Why wouldn’t I?”  Victor answered almost offhandedly.

 

“Victor-”

 

“What are you trying to say, Chris?  That I’m not capable of having a lover?  That I’m not boyfriend material?”

 

“I didn’t say that, but-”

 

“Because if you are,” Victor interrupted with a cheerful air, “I’ll have you know that not only am I boyfriend material, I’m fucking  _ husband _ material!”

 

There.  That should shut him up.

 

It certainly stopped Chris from talking, but not in the way Victor thought it might, with the younger man erupting in more fits of laughter at his expense.  As torturous as that was, Victor would have preferred it to what he was getting instead. His friend was staring at him with a look that was a mixture of disbelief and perturbation.  What was that about? Victor allowed the silence to continue as he saw Chris check the time on his phone and as he tensely fingered the handle of his now-empty latte cup. “You look as though I just sprouted another head,” Victor commented quietly.  

 

Chris relaxed his expression a little, but he held a suspicious and serious air about him that Victor was not really used to seeing.  “Maybe you should just forget about Yuuri Katsuki, Victor. I don’t think...it would work out.”

 

What?!  How the hell did Chris arrive at  _ that _ conclusion?  Yuuri was beautiful, sexy; he was seductive, and such a gorgeous dancer, and there were glimpses of greatness in his skating too, and he managed to glide into his consciousness and heart with effortless ease, and asked for nothing that Victor didn’t already want to give… Was not Yuuri the  _ perfect man _ ?!  

 

He had a slew of retorts waiting to be unleashed upon the spoken opinion of his friend, full of protests and rebuttals and bitchy commentary about Chris changing his lovers as routinely as some people change socks, but they all died upon his tongue, and a feeling of dread washed over him.  “W-why would you say something like that?” he asked quietly.

 

Chris seemed to be pondering his response very carefully before he spoke again.  “I can’t think of two people I know who are more unlike each other than you and Yuuri Katsuki.”

 

“So?  Ever hear of the phrase ‘opposites attract’?”

 

Chris exhaled.  “I’m just saying that what we saw last night was a side of Yuuri I don’t think many people have seen.  I’ve never seen it. I doubt I’ll ever see it again, either.”

 

“You keep saying you don’t know him that well yourself, but clearly you know something I do not, yes?”

 

“Not really.  I’m just saying that I don’t want to hear the words ‘boyfriend’ or ‘husband’ coming from  _ you _ .  That’s not your image at all, cheri.  It’s not just your skating, which is always your number one priority, far ahead of any fine looking specimen, but it is also your  _ persona _ that pays your fucking bills; I don’t think you could be that persona with someone like Yuuri.”

 

Ouch.  That stung.  

 

“You’re an asshole,”   he replied coldly as he rose to throw away the empty coffee cup in the nearest rubbish bin.  He needed to step away from that dose of truth because Chris was exactly right: Victor had made a handsome living being fucking  _ fake _ .  And the pull of his thoughts as they strayed back to Yuuri Katsuki told him that he didn’t want to be fake at all with that person.  Shit. Chris really needed to stop being painfully correct at times when all Victor wanted was someone to support him when he was actually trying to be  _ real  _ for once in his goddamn plastic life.

 

“Victor, please, I also care about  _ you _ -”

 

Shake it off, Nikiforov.  Fine. Be the fucking media darling, be the cheerful-flaky-extra-Drama Queen people have come to know and love and  _ expect. _

 

The surprise of Victor Nikiforov being simply  _ Victor _ was, apparently, a surprise no one wanted.  Not even Chris.

 

He shook his head and plastered on the cheerful smile as he returned to his chair. 

 

“Oh, you know what?   I fully intend to sweep him off his feet, mon ami!  And don’t you worry because I’m going to buy that gorgeous man a coffee right now, invite him to breakfast, and make arrangements for the most amazing dates anywhere he wants to go-”

 

Chris clicked his tongue in exasperation, interrupting the spewage of Victor’s faked over-excitement.  “This is  _ exactly _ what I’m talking about.  _ You’re _ the one who is deciding that Yuuri will get swept up in your craziness and then what?  He realizes he can’t keep up and maybe doesn’t want to? Then what?”

 

"Chris, it’s different-”

 

“No, Victor, it’s really not.   _ You’re _ the one who got swept up by the novelty of _ him _ . Just like with that last one from a year or two ago, what was his name again?”

 

Vitor felt his brow furrow slightly.  What was his name again, the last Almost-Kept-His-Number-Guy?  Ah. He had kept that number for a short while after all, didn’t he?  The one over whom Yakov didn’t speak to him for a week of silent disapproving grunts at the rink.   The one with the Benz convertible. The car was red with a cream-colored interior, the music was always deep house, and the convertible helped to dispel the smoke from his cigarettes, the one who made promises as he smoked after having his full of Victor’s body, promises of a life of luxurious travel together to exotic places obtained with money Victor knew better than to ask its origin...and he couldn’t remember the man’s name for the life of him.

 

“Chris-”

 

“You don’t even remember his name do you?”

 

No.  Dear God,  he didn’t. The memory went out with the rubbish bin along with the man’s phone number when things got too intense and when Victor learned that he was not the man’s only option for that promised luxurious life.  

 

“It doesn’t matter,” he declared.  “Yuuri is not like that person.”

 

“But you are still  _ you, _ and you are acting exactly the same way you did that time,”  Chris said gently, and hearing his genuine concern almost made Victor feel worse.  Damn it, Chris. “Don’t do this to yourself at the height of your career.”

 

That was probably a bit too generous of an assessment, and they both knew it, but Victor understood what Chris was trying to do.  He was trying to protect him from himself in some small way, he supposed. He exhaled. “I’m buying him a coffee. And...I’ll just see how it goes.  If anything, I plan to take him out for dinner after the ex-skate and I am sure that everything will be fine.”

 

He rose again from the chair and pulled his wallet from his pants and was ready to make his way to the counter when Chris’s spoke again toward his back:  “Victor, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but...I saw Yuuri and his coach check out early this morning. Yuuri’s already gone.”

 

He stopped mid-stride and he felt a pain in his chest far more unbearable than the stabbing pain that shot through his foot when he awkwardly misstepped upon hearing the words.  He froze as though tied down to the cheap floor tiles of the cafe, not able to step forward to order coffee for a person who was already gone, but unable to turn and face the honesty of Chris either.  

 

“Victor…”

 

The sound of the quiet conversations from the other patrons of the cafe suddenly irritated his hangover as though they were many more decibels in volume than they actually were, and he felt his shoulders tighten and his knees ache and his ankles might have been a bit swollen too, and-

 

A hand upon his shoulder, squeezing.  “Cheri, you need to forget him.”

 

“No, I need his phone number, so give it to me,” he replied flatly.

 

“I don’t have it.”

 

Oh God. 

 

What the hell was Yuuri doing?!  Why didn’t he call or text?! Why did he leave  _ before _ the ex-skate?!  He was still one of the Final Six!  Why did he walk away from him  _ again _ , just like he did at the venue after the free?!  Hadn’t they gotten past that with their dancing and with Victor sucking his  _ dick _ for crying out loud?!  

 

Or maybe, Chris was right and Victor was seeing something that wasn’t actually there at all.

 

The thought was intrusive.  Mortifying. What had that man done to him in the space of one fucking night?

 

“I’ll see you at the ex-skate, cheri.  I’ll help you forget him if you want afterward.  No expectations,” Chris affirmed softly, accurately sensing that Victor didn’t want any more interaction at the moment, but reiterating his standing invitation for comfortably-distant fun anyway.

 

Victor watched his friend exit the cafe, but his attention immediately snapped to his pocket and toward the vibration of his phone.  Was it Yuuri?

 

Of course it wasn’t.

 

“If you’re still at the cafe with your Friend the Man-Whore, bring me two large coffees with a shit-ton of sugar, Geezer.”

Yeah, he’d bring the Ice Tiger his fucking empty carbs. Why the fuck not?

 

“Okay.”  Send.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading <3\. We're kind of on the home-stretch now for this thing, so I hope you will carry on with me until the end. Thank you so much for all the kudos, bookmarks, and comments, all of which give me LIFE! Is everyone else as #ThirstyForTheMovie as I am?!?!?!
> 
> It was so much fun watching the Yuri On Concert live stream! Especially since I watched it "together" with another amazing and special fellow fangirl. You Know Who You Are. <3 It was a BLAST.
> 
> Thank you again for all the support, I'm really happy if I could make people happy with this little story.  
> ~C


	11. Chapter Eleven

Russian Nationals:  Victor won. Typical.  He knew the competitive field of his own countrymen better than he sometimes knew his own practice schedule.  Which he had not been adhering to lately. And for which Yakov had been inordinately pissed off with him. 

 

And he still won Gold.

 

Russian Press Conferences:  also typical. They were really more like a cocktail party with people pussyfooting around real questions by asking innocuous ones to butter him up good before they tried to sneak in something personal to trip him up and make him falter to fuel the suspicions of the gossip rags and of the society page.

 

“Victor, please tell us what your plans are for next season?”

 

So typical.  They were still in the kiddie pool.  Okay. Which approach should he take?  Got it.

 

“Oh, you know I can’t do that, Irina Pavlova,” he gushed,  “even if you do look absolutely  _ stunning _ tonight!  Is that a new necklace?  It’s to die for!” 

 

“Oh, Victor,”   the reporter giggled, “don’t keep us waiting until the end of the season like this!  Surely you must have some thoughts already, no?”

 

“Hmm,” he fake-pondered with a finger to his lips, “Maybe you can get it out of Yakov?  But I must warn you, he’s been a little huffy lately!”

 

Canned laughter from the crowd; he could always get a quick win by making fun of his coach’s well-known ill-temper, and, even though in this particular circumstance Yakov  _ was _ actually pissed at him, most of the press wouldn’t buy that for a second, thinking that the well-respected coach would never seriously part ways with his Golden Student with the Silver hair.  

 

“Victor, what say you to the rumors currently being reported in the European press at large that say you have been nursing a foot injury?”  

 

“Hmmm, what was that?  I didn’t quite catch that.  Is this thing on?” he asked with a laugh to no one in particular as he yanked the cord from the outlet underneath the table with his foot.  Georgi, from his position to his right as the Silver Medalist, earnestly tried to assist him by fiddling with his mic stand anyway. Bless him for that so Victor could stare his daggers toward the asker of the question.  Shortly, an event coordinator approached the table to see what was wrong with Victor’s microphone, and Victor promptly kicked the cord further away where it hopefully tangled well enough with all the other wired garbage underneath the table to take the man a bit to find it when he ducked under to investigate.

 

Okay.  Unfortunately, this reporter was one he knew well even though Victor had tried his absolute best to forget his name after the last time he pissed him off.  He knew him well-enough to know that the man was a first class dick who liked to ask questions about retiring and injuries and his personal life just for shits and giggles.  Not to mention that he was also a fucking 30-something-ish closet case disguised as a homophobe who probably was on the speed dial of any number of managers of gay bars in Moscow just in case Victor happened to show up in one of them.  He’d found out about that the hard way a few years back, and he was yelled at by Yakov and some of his sponsors on-and-off for a month afterward for the tabloid pictures that followed which displayed grainy shots of him drunk and shirtless with...an admirer or two on his arm.  No doubt some of them ended up in the man’s personal jerk-off collection too. Victor never outright confirmed or denied anything about his own preferences, not while he was still competing, but, he’d been carelessly drunk enough times that most people who followed the sport knew anyway whether or not he bothered to confirm it. He and Chris were pretty much in a “friends with benefits” situation, according to half the internet, right?  Fuck it. It had been fun to keep people guessing.

 

But, that ended in Sochi.  Chris offered again after the ex-skate of the GPF.  Victor refused. They got on their planes. They left.

 

His birthday came and went. And now it was the end of Russian Nationals.

 

And still, Yuuri hadn’t reached out to him, and still, Victor didn’t want to let it go and forget.

 

Somehow in the interim, he’d managed to convince his fellow Banquet attendees not to send the photos of Yuuri’s dancing to any public sources; thankfully it was sort of an unspoken rule that “Whatever happens at the Banquet, stays at the Banquet.”  Everyone seemed to be following it too. Thank God.

 

Even if there were people in the current press gallery who may have seen the Sochi videos or, perhaps, may have even been there in person themselves, most of the legit sports press did him the courtesy of not really mentioning any off-ice stunts that might have involved him being in the company of other men.  They seemed to be content with placing more weight upon his achievements on the ice and basically giving him a pass on the shenans, as they well and truly should do anyway for all of the athletes, no matter where they were from. He was a figure skater after all, so they should only care about his skating when all was said and done.  Most of them were fine.

 

“Testing 1-2-3;  it’s working now, Mr. Nikiforov,”  affirmed the event coordinator after having successfully plugged in the cord once again.    Victor flashed him a million-dollar smile and gave him a fake-friendly “Thanks” before he turned to face the press again.

 

“Victor, will you be representing Russia at Europeans or not?  Do you have a foot injury to disclose?” came the repeated question, complete with an impatient inflection toward Victor’s perceived stalling.  

 

Victor honestly didn’t mind the press.  Most of them were regular people just doing their jobs.  There was a saying that there was no such thing as bad press, but Victor knew better than that when it came to dealing with this idiot.   Whilst most of the reporters were courteous, even if they asked a question he would prefer not to answer, Dimitry Baranov was  _ not _ ; he was probably a jealous little bitch over the fact that Victor could get away with having more than a few hot dates with guys Dimitry would never be able to glance toward nevermind to  _ touch _ , and so the reporter went right from the kiddie pool to the deep end tonight with that shit about his damn foot.  Damn it. Which one of the physical therapists got paid for leaking that little fucking tidbit?

 

“Really~~?  Wow, I had no idea about those stories!  Come to think of it, I did have a little pain on the ice tonight, but, I assure you that I was just hungry!  I’ll give 100 rubles to the first one of you to throw me a Power Bar!”

 

More forced-nice laughter, but the sharks were starting to circle.  How much more of this did he have to take tonight? He had other things to think about instead of the stupid questions from these, well, to borrow a Yuri Plisetsky favorite,  _ Fucktards. _

 

Like getting out his phone so he could hurry the hell up and watch the Japanese Nationals.

 

“Victor,” the closet-case prodded,  _ for the third time _ , as if that would make any difference, “will you or will you not be sitting out Europeans due to injury?”

 

Well, he’s got courage, this one.   He’ll give him that. Fucking wannabe KGB or whatever.  Time to get serious. “I assure you, Mr., um, I’m so sorry, will you kindly pleasure me with your name again?”

 

“Dimitry Andreevich Baranov, Moscow Times.  At your  _ service _ ,”  the man grit out.  Success. Now they were evenly pissed off with each other.  Good.

 

“Ah, yes, Dima, how could I forget! Please pardon me; I’ve had sort of a busy day, what with  winning and everything,” he replied with another fake-smile and a flirty wink which he saw was  _ not _ well received by the man.   And, yes, he used the diminutive without permission.  And, no, he didn’t care. The rest of the room seemed to enjoy his answer well enough.

 

“Your charm can’t deter my question, Victor.  Will you compete in the European Championships or will you have to withdraw due to a foot injury?”

 

“Of course there is nothing that will keep me out of the Europeans, unless you were planning on taking me to Disney World or something instead, Dima?  That offer might make it a tough call! When’s our flight? I only travel First Class, you know, so I hope you like Champagne!”

 

The room laughed again and he even heard a little snicker from Georgi who sat patiently in waiting for his own questions which were always fewer in quantity and sort of bland in comparison to the ones for which Victor always had to provide answers.  It was one of the few assorted things for which Victor always had a tinge of jealousy toward his rinkmate of the same age: he tended to get off easy with the press. But, Victor supposed, Georgi was just an all-around good person, if a little intense about a few things, so he never ever provided juicy details for the press to drink up. For that, Yakov had always praised him, often right in front of Victor to hammer the disapproval home when the coach felt it necessary to do so.  Maybe Victor should have learned something from Georgi along the way about that. Oh well. Too late now. Dimitry-the-Dick-Closet-Case-Asshole-Baranov was inhaling for another question. Gah. He wasn’t even nice to look at either. His crimes against fashion were many, and his hair was mousy and his skin seriously needed some fucking toner. Maybe he should send him some product from his sponsors, delivered by courier to what Victor imagined had to be a shit reporter’s desk in some basement without windows in a Moscow warehouse.  This dude would  _ love _ that.  Victor would sign the card with lots of hearts too.  The guy would probably jerk off to it for a year.

 

“I assure you that I,”  Dimitry began, his voice hushing the laughter of the rest of the press, “and all of Russia, in fact, would much rather see you take another Gold at Europeans than to be taking a  _ child’s _ vacation, Victor.  I hope that you will give us another worthy performance there; Coach Feltsman seemed, shall I say, a bit... _ unmoved _ tonight after the free.  Thankfully, for  _ you _ , the judges disagreed.  What are your thoughts on that?”

 

Forget it.  Victor wasn’t going to waste product on this asshole.  Especially when he was right about Yakov. Fuck.

 

“Hmm, well, it goes  _ without saying _ , that all skaters at any level always look for ways to improve their performances, no matter where they placed; I am no different in this.   Of course, I am very grateful for the judges tonight, regardless. I am sure that when Yakov and I review the score sheets and footage, he will point out areas where I can be even better.”   Cue the snapping photos for his “dignified” way of responding. That will be one for the articles where they would portray him as an Inspiration to Future Skaters of the Motherland, no doubt.

 

Well, they got their soundbite, now it was time to “Victor-it-up” for Mr. Baranov:  “The next time you see me, Dima,  _ at Europeans _ ,  I might even be  _ more _ gorgeous than I am tonight!  I hope that’s okay with you!” 

 

Aaaaaannnd...wink.  

 

Ah, the look on the man’s face was priceless.  If only the stupid photogs would take a picture of that so Victor could use the most unflattering filters to give this guy a bit of his own medicine.  He’d retweet the fuck out of it to @AllTheGossipMags, #TryHarderBitch #Don’tFuckWithMe #You’llNeverBeGoodEnoughForPrada #It’sDarkInsideTheCloset #Oops!DidISayThat? 

 

“Victor,”  a different reporter called,  “actually, I would like both you and Georgi to answer this, if you please.  You are now both 27 years old. Will you be reducing the number of competitions that you will be participating in next season?”

 

Before Victor could take a breath to respond, Georgi proclaimed a very emphatic “No!” into his microphone.  To that, Victor replied with another wink and a little nudge to Georgi, “There’s no reason for us to reduce our participation.  See? We look good up here at the top, don’t we, Zhora?”

 

Georgi blushed a full dozen tomatoes of red; he hated being called that in front of the press.  Oops. Victor forgot that and it just slipped out; he’d have to apologize for that and he would.   Returning his attention to the reporter again, Victor decided to respond for both of them too, putting on an accusatory air that was only half-fake.  “You weren’t trying to say that we were  _ old _ or anything….were you?”  

 

“Of course not,”  the reporter back-pedaled with a nervous little laugh, “it’s just that, statistically, there is a limit…”

 

“Good!”  Victor interrupted, “Because Georgi and I are still going strong and do you really think Yakov would let us go so easily?  He wouldn’t know what to do with himself! We give him his purpose for living!”

 

The room laughed again; teasing Yakov always did the job.   Georgi chuckled a little too and he seemed to have recovered enough to answer the questions that were being directed toward him.  As Georgi was talking to the press, earnestly and politely answering them, Victor scanned the room and his eyes met Yakov’s as the man stood by the exit.  Uh-oh. He knew that look. Oh well; he had it coming, he supposed.

 

Finally the presser was over, and Victor quickly ushered himself toward the exit, with Georgi hot on his heels.  For all that he was good-natured, Georgi did not really enjoy press conferences, and he enjoyed being second to Victor for the umpteenth time even less.  “Sorry about earlier, Georgi. Your cute nickname just slipped out.”

 

“It’s okay, Victor, but only Anya and my Dear Mother may call me ‘Zhora’ in public.  For everyone else, I’d prefer to keep it professional.”

 

“You can still call me Vitya,” he said quietly, “you haven’t in a long time.”

 

“You’ll stay Victor for as long as were are competing.  We’re competitors.”

 

“Ah.  I suppose that we are.”

 

Georgi was always so black-and-white.   Victor admired that about him sometimes; it took strength to be so decisive in everything, and Georgi always had a clearly defined goal and purpose, both on and off the ice.   Unlike Victor who thrived on flights of fancy and impulsive behavior, Georgi rarely wavered once he made a decision, and his usual decisions mostly involved taking Yakov’s instructions as gospel and adhering to them without fail.  If Victor hadn’t been there, Georgi would surely have been the top skater in Russia of their generation.

 

But that black-and-white conviction also made Georgi stop calling him Vitya a long time ago.  When Victor started to surpass him in the junior division, he went back to Victor. Permanently.  And his rinkmate also asked him to stop calling him Zhora too. It was as though Georgi had decided selfishly on his own that being “friends” was a weakness he couldn’t afford; they didn’t even talk to him about it, he just informed him after Victor won gold at Junior Europeans one year, and  Victor remembered feeling that sense of loss again, the loss of someone else who did not want to know Vitya at all anymore, but who only wanted to know Victor Nikiforov, Figure Skater.

 

Would there ever be anyone who wanted to know him as only Vitya?

 

What about Yuuri?  What did he want? Why hadn’t he called?  Texted? Direct Messaged?  _ Anything?! _

 

Should he just take Chris’s advice and forget?

 

No.   _ No _ .

 

Japanese Nationals were on; Victor was sure that Yuuri was just busy preparing for that, especially because he probably wanted to make a good showing after the GPF.  That made sense. He’d recover from the Final, he’d win his Nationals, and he’d be on the way to Worlds where Victor could see him again, and talk to him, and ask him why he didn’t call, and hug him, and kiss him, and run fingers through his hair, and maybe go out on the town in Tokyo, and then end up in one of their rooms....okay.  Okay. That’s it, Victor. He’s got this. He’ll make it happen. He didn’t have to forget Yuuri. He  _ didn’t _ .

 

If he got to his phone quickly enough, he should still be able to catch the free skate.  He had missed the short, but reviewed the highlights; Yuuri was in fourth place after the short program.  Not  _ terrible _ , but not great either.  Victor had only been able to see clips from a highlight reel, and, from what he saw, it looked like the jumps became Yuuri’s Achilles Heel once again.  But he could recover from fourth; the free is where he could make up for the technical mistakes with his amazing spins and steps. Victor had done enough Internet Stalking of his programs since the GPF to know that when Yuuri Katsuki was “on”, he really fucking  _ was _ .   Yuuri’s PCS could rival his own, and Victor knew those step sequences were at least a +3GOE or maybe even a +4.  His camel spin had to be a +4; it was gorgeous. If he focused on his strengths, he could medal, even if his jumps weren’t perfect.  His triples were usually fine: his axel was great, his triple loop was divine. 

 

But that quad salchow though...shit.  Victor wasn’t really sure what the Japanese skater was doing  _ wrong _ , per se, but oh dear God, was it ugly.  And it hurt every part of his body, mind, and soul to think that.  His costumes again too...those cuffs need to be fucking burned, and then burned  _ again _ for good measure.  

 

What in the hell was his coach, whoever it was,  _ thinking _ by putting a shit-ton of quads in a program for a skater who couldn’t land them consistently?  Didn’t Yuuri know he could still win with even just one quad? Why attempt three or four at all, especially when all but one were the toe-loop, arguably the easiest of the ratified jumps, which wouldn’t make any judge really pay attention?  And then to throw in that garbage salchow too?

 

_ Be my coach, Bictoru~~~! _

 

What would he have done for Yuuri as a... _ coach _ ?

 

Step one:  burn the cuffs.  Fuck it: burn Yuuri’s  entire skating wardrobe and start from scratch.

Step two:  make him watch videos of a perfectly executed quad salchow until his eyes bled, preferably while doing crunches.

Step three:  ??? Kiss him or something?

 

Yeah, right.  Victor would make an  _ awesome _ coach.  Shit.

 

How many skaters did Japan send to Worlds?  ‘Just get Silver, Yuuri,’ he had thought after the short program, ‘you don’t need to win, but get Silver and come to Worlds with me…’ 

 

_ Dance with me again, Yuuri... _

 

He pushed open the door of the locker room and made a beeline toward his bag.  There were a handful of competitors inside who were chatting with their coaches over their score sheets and another small handful were socializing with each other as friends.  They all glanced toward him as he entered with Georgi, a couple of the men tossed them a wave and a smile, but most did not and kept to their own business. Georgi said hello to a few of them, happy to be away from the press and happier still to be getting the hell out of there to go see his Anya.  

 

Who was a total bitch, and possibly a slut, though Victor didn’t really have actual confirmation on that aside from telling her bluntly one night to stop flirting with him after she had too much vodka at a bar, and after she proclaimed that she could change his mind and make him play for the other team.  Yeah. Sure. Been there, done that, bought the t-shirt. It had been not only a “no,” but a “Fuck, No,” and she gave up in a huff and never actually spoke to him again.

 

He tried to tell Georgi about that, but it had been to no avail:  Georgi had decided that Anya was his Princess, and that was that. And, for whatever reason, Anya decided that Georgi was an excellent rebound relationship from her last boyfriend, some swimmer Victor knew peripherally and didn’t like.  Well, Georgi was a big boy; he’d figure it out sooner or later.

 

His phone was buzzing with a phone call from Chris as he pulled it out of his roller bag.  He was about to answer when he was forced to stop short of doing it.

 

“Vitya.”

 

So there was one person who still called him that:  Yakov. Who was pissed at him. Who truly was “unmoved” by his free skate.  Who probably wanted Georgi to fucking win something for once. Who never called Georgi “Zhora”.  Who was respected by Georgi to the nth degree, and Yakov respected Georgi right back to acknowledge it.  Did Yakov even respect him at all anymore? Had he ever? Victor wasn’t sure. Maybe the coach just put up with him because he won all the fucking time.  

 

“Ah, Yakov, I really need to take this phone call-”

 

“Everybody out!”  Yakov bellowed to the room at large and the low hum of conversation that had been a gentle undercurrent of noise within the locker room abruptly stopped, and everyone froze in place, staring at the veins which were definitely making themselves known upon his coach’s substantial forehead.  Nobody seemed to be able to move, and, of course, Yakov was not satisfied. “NOW!!” 

 

Immediately, everyone scrambled to throw their shit in their bags and hustle out of the space; even the other coaches in the room knew better than to argue with Yakov Feltsman.  Shit. 

 

When the room was empty and when the door clicked shut, Victor found himself to be alone with his coach who looked as though he was about to punch him, even if Victor knew he never would do that.  Maybe he shouldn’t have been so obnoxious at the press conference. God, he hoped that Yakov would not force him to issue an apology to Dimitry Baranov or anything; he’d rather screw Georgi’s precious Anya than for to do  _ that. _

 

Uh...maybe?

 

“What the  _ hell  _ do you think you were doing out there?!”  the coach yelled. 

 

Victor felt his blood run a little colder. Oh, he really,  _ really  _ didn’t want to apologize to that asshole Dimitry.  Georgi could keep his little ice dancer too. Shit.   “Out where?” he asked quietly.

 

“On the  _ ice _ , you  _ Idiot. _ ” 

 

Oh.  Of course.  Wait, what?

 

“...Winning?”  he answered tentatively, not sure toward what direction this conversation was actually going.

 

Yakov made an ugly and disapproving grunt.  “Why did you change your goddamn step sequence?!”  he shouted.

 

Wait...what?!

 

Did he change it?  Did he? He thought he had just imagined doing something different out there, but maybe he did?  Victor suddenly didn’t know, and his phone was now pinging urgently with notifications but he didn’t dare to look at it, sensing that Yakov was in danger of actually having that stroke Victor always teased him about.

 

“Yakov-”

 

“ _ No _ , Vitya,” the coach interrupted sternly,  “I don’t even want to  _ hear _ whatever crazy notion has wiggled its way into your screwed-up head this time!”

 

“But I-”

 

“Here.  Take a look at what your selfishness could have cost you tonight,” he snapped, roughly shoving both his and Georgi’s score sheets into his hand.  Victor scanned them, not sure why his coach thought it appropriate for Victor to view the scoring of his rinkmate’s Silver Medal performance.

 

Until he saw it.

 

Shit.

 

He fucked up.

 

He could feel his eyes widen, he could sense the tension in every single vein, the throbbing of blood vessels constricting as they pushed the rushing stream all the way from his not-100%-foot and to his neck, where Yakov himself could probably feel the pulsing of his carotid artery from two feet away, and all the while his phone would not stop incessantly buzzing and beeping in his other hand.  He blinked, not really thinking that it actually would change what he was seeing, but he did it anyway. Beep. Buzz. Ping. Buzz. BeepbeepBuzzBeepPingpingpingpingping-

 

“Turn that goddamn phone  _ off! _ ”

 

He turned it off.

 

“Explain yourself, Vitya.  Explain why, if Georgi hadn’t taken a fall early in his short program and if he hadn’t touched down on his combination in the free, he would have  _ beaten _ your ass tonight.”

 

“I-”

 

He didn’t want to explain it, but the scores should have explained plenty to his coach.  He hadn’t seen a score that low from himself on a step sequence element since...when? Ever?  Certainly, it wasn’t  _ horrible _ , but…it was bad enough that Georgi was only two small errors away from beating him.  

 

At Russian Nationals.

 

In Russia.

 

Where he was  _ the _ Victor Fucking Nikiforov.

 

His coach emitted one of his long-suffering sighs, took off his hat, and made a motion with his hand as though he was running fingers through his no-longer-extant-hair before he put the hat back on and pulled the score sheets out of Victor’s lax grip.   He folded each one individually in half and placed them carefully into the inside pocket of his coat. “Vitya. When are you going to tell me what is going on with you? You’re drinking too much, you’re not sticking to your practice schedule, coming and going as you please, you’re not taking care of Yura, you’re not-”

 

“I won’t do it again,”  he said flatly. He didn’t need to hear any more of the litany of all the things he was  _ not _ doing.   

 

“Vitya-”

 

“I know.”

 

Another sigh.  “No, I don’t think you do.  You never listen to me. You never listen to anyone.”

 

“There’s nothing wrong with my hearing,” Victor replied softly.

 

The vein popped again and the hushed tone was gone.  “The next time you make an unauthorized change to your program, at least have the decency to execute it properly!  Why change your  _ steps,  _ of  _ all things _ ,  when your foot is-”

 

“My foot is  _ fine _ .”

 

“Your scores on that element say it  _ isn’t _ ,”  Yakov snapped.

 

Shit.  He couldn't argue with that.  He didn’t even remember what he did out there!  He tried to think, tried to ascertain what moves he changed, and then he knew.  Oh God. He knew; Stammi Vicino started in mental playback in his head, and he recalled being at the rink for practice in the predawn hours a few days prior, experimenting with his own music and with steps he had seen in one of Yuuri Katsuki’s past short programs, a line packed with brackets and choctaws and double twizzles; it was complex, changing rotation with rockers and counters, without a stabilizing mohawk anywhere in sight to reset the body to prepare for the alternate rotational direction.   Every time he ran through it, Victor found himself breathing hard yet impressed; that guy must have some amazing stamina, because he put these hellish steps smack-dab in the middle of his short program, and completed them with enough speed to launch a triple axel from them.

 

Talk about a difficult entry to an axel.  The judges must have scored his axel pretty high from such a difficult entry; Victor had wondered what it would look like if Yuuri tried the axel from another difficult entry:  the spread eagle. He could get a higher GOE for that to make up for his relative lack of clean quads, and, since his triple axel was pretty reliable from what Victor had seen, he could get a multiplier by putting it in the second half, and then-

 

“Vitya!”

 

Oh.

 

He was at Russian Nationals.  Getting lectured. He wasn’t alone at the rink in St. Petersburg in the dark right now.  And the Japanese Nationals were underway and he was missing it.  _ Missing it! _

 

“I’m sorry, Yakov.  I’ll revert the program.  Can I use my phone now?”

 

The question hung in the air, and the empty locker room failed to provide any distractions aside from a dripping sound coming from the lavatory that Victor hadn’t noticed was annoying until just this moment. The sound permeated his skull and reverberated like an irritant in his heart and lungs because he didn’t have the reliable accompaniment of his phone blowing up in his hand to help him ignore the tightening he was starting to feel in his chest.   The phone was his only connection from his life to Yuuri’s right now, and he didn’t even have permission to make that tenuous connection at all by turning it back on. His heart was doing that little thing again, that newly-habitual-whatever-it-was, and he wanted for nothing more than to learn the outcome of the Japanese Nationals to set it at ease. And yet, the device remained stubbornly still, like a cold, unfeeling, little plastic  _ brick _ .  

 

Drip.  Dripdrip.  Drip. Dripdrip.   

 

“Who is he?”  the coach asked quietly.

 

Oh God.  Not  _ again. _

 

“There’s no one.”

 

There wasn’t anyone, because Yuuri hadn’t responded to anything since that night.  So there wasn’t anyone. There wasn’t anyone for whom he should have to explain himself to Yakov.    His heart had gotten so used to being closed off, like the plastic of the silent phone in his hand, and Yakov shouldn’t be prying like this because it wasn’t any of his business if his student wanted to give his heart one more chance to open up again.   “Stay Close to Me and Never Leave”: as far as Yakov was concerned, it should still be about the  _ ice _ .

 

And yet, Victor knew it wasn’t anymore, that it really hadn’t been this entire season thus far.  He knew that the performance mask clearly was not fully in place, culminating in the reality check from the judges, the “We gave you a pass on this  _ shit _ you called a step sequence because you’re still  _ Victor Fucking Nikiforov _ ”, that glared at him from the page of his score sheet.  Logically, his coach would have to be concerned about that.  Shit. 

 

“Answer me, Vitya,”  the coach directed softly, not believing his lie.  “Who is he?”

 

Victor realized that Yakov must have sensed that the ice was not the end-all, be-all as of late; that Victor’s love for it was being rivaled, that his heart was being pulled by more than the physical exertion of his program.  Yuuri had set it afire again, and Victor didn’t want to have to turn off his heartbeat this time, didn’t want to press the proverbial off-button and make it stop; rather, he craved for its strengthening rhythm, the growing awareness of something that could be  _ real _ for once, the chance to stave off the void that grew deeper with every passing season, with every tedious press conference, with every practice in the dark.

 

However,  the more weeks that went by without hearing from Yuuri; the void that had started to lessen was growing again, pulling him into a goddamn  _ state _ .  He didn’t need to have Yakov make it worse for him right now, he didn’t want his coach to choose his moment of anxiousness and uncertainty about Yuuri to bring down what Victor supposed was like a parental hammer to shatter his heart of glass.  He wanted to give that power to Yuuri instead, to be allowed to bare himself, figuratively, literally: in all senses of the word “bare”, he wanted for it to be Yuuri who would hold his heart within his hands, to make it wild with fire, but to steady him into the calm of the Life and Love he had been forced to ignore for so long to remain faithful to the ice.  He had never wanted to have that conflicted desire bestowed upon anyone else, and Yakov should understand that he was interfering with Victor’s secret plan, was trampling upon it without knowing, was wrecking it before it had even had the chance to begin.

 

Yakov should  _ know _ this.  He was his  _ coach _ .

 

This wasn’t like What’s-His-Name-He-Couldn’t-Remember, it wasn’t like that at all, and Victor suddenly felt indignant.  He wasn’t out clubbing or getting kicked out of any bars, he wasn’t going off on weekend getaways to the Spanish Riviera with some Don Juan who thought Victor might be his Doña Ana, where Yakov might actually have had reason to fear for his own safety or sanity.   Yakov didn’t still need to know every single detail about his life after all this time, did he? He didn’t need to know that Victor’s heart had a tiny hairline fracture that was at a critical juncture, that it could either heal or shatter depending on  _ one person _ who was like the sun in springtime, a sun which had the power to warm cold bodies after a long Russian winter, but that could also shine upon a patch of thin ice just right and cause a devastating, spidering crack.  Did Yakov need to know all that? Did he? He didn’t need to know that Victor was still recovering from being majorly dissed by a sexy Japanese skater did he? He didn’t need to know that he was obsessing to the point of unconsciously incorporating Yuuri’s steps into a teeny tiny little bitty part of his own program.   _ Did. He?! _

 

Seriously.  Did Yakov think that just because he was his coach that he needed to know  _ everything _ about his student like that?

 

Oh.

 

_ Oh. _

 

Was that it after all?  Did a coach really need to know everything about his skaters before they could achieve success?  Did Victor screw up because he hadn’t really talked to Yakov much after Sochi at all? 

 

Had he really been inside his own head too much?  Was he really living in some flaky fantasy world of his own making?  He didn’t Internet Stalk Yuuri  _ that _ much...right?!

 

His heart wasn’t... _ breaking _ ...was it?!

 

Yuuri...

 

“There’s no one, Yakov.  I’ll revert the program,”  he repeated.

 

Yakov raised a skeptical brow but he didn’t press again.  “You’d better. And when we arrive at home, your ass is at the rink on  _ my _ schedule.  Compulsories.  Two hours. Daily.  Every day until Europeans.  You got me?”

 

Get it together, Nikiforov.  Snap out of it. Ignore it. This is your fucking  _ job _ .  “Yeah.”

 

“Don’t drink tonight…,”  the coach cautioned, “...especially after you check your phone,” he added quietly.

 

Huh?

 

“I’ll give you a few minutes before I let anyone else in here to get over it.”

 

“Get over what?”  Victor whispered, suddenly uneasy, with a sick and sour feeling beginning tightly to coil within his gut.

 

Yakov said nothing as he left the room, and Victor could hear him ordering whoever was hovering near the door waiting to re-enter to disappear.  Victor turned on his phone which immediately started pinging and buzzing again. His most recent notification was a text from Chris: “Call me. As soon as you see this message.”

 

He didn’t want to call.  He started to scroll through his notifications, most had links to what he assumed were the final results of the Japanese Nationals.  He clicked.

 

Oh no.

 

_ Oh nonononononoNO…! _

 

He clicked another link to an article that had just been uploaded online:  “Another Off-Night For Katsuki, Skater Rumored to be Retiring in the Postseason.”

 

Victor felt his knees give way and he barely managed to find the bench as he landed his ass on it in a pathetic rumpled heap.  He flipped through everything at a maddening pace, heart racing, threatening to shatter, threatening to be turned off, threatening destruction of  the one chance for those two L words to actually become part of his goddamn vocabulary. This couldn’t be happening! Where the fuck did Yuuri place?  What?! He blinked again. And a clip. Of more falling. And falling. And falling. 

 

Falling into the void.

 

Chris was calling again.  

 

He slid his finger across the screen to answer, but he couldn’t speak, could barely hold the phone against his face due to the trembling of his hand, could barely breathe, could barely focus because of the stinging in his eyes that started up immediately upon seeing the results of Japan’s National Competition.

 

“Victor?  I know you’re there.  I can hear you...” came the quiet voice through the handset.  He couldn’t respond. He couldn’t.

 

“He isn’t going to Worlds, Victor.  I’m so sorry, cheri....”

 

“Y-yeah,” he managed to eke out, “thanks for telling me.”

 

He closed the call.  Yakov...how did he…

 

Just.

 

_ Know? _

 

Victor swiped at his eyes and ran toward the doorway of the locker room, flinging it open so hard that it slammed against the wall.  He darted his tear-blurred gaze around until his eyes fell upon his coach. Of course he’d be standing right outside the door waiting for him, keeping others away with just a sidelong glance, casting a radius of Do Not Enter from one end of the corridor to the other.  He managed to choke out a stifled “Y-yakov…” before the stern coach pulled him in for the hug he desperately needed, so that the one person in his life who still called him Vitya could stop the shattered pieces of his heart from scattering too far away from him and forever dispersing beyond his reach.   

 

Once Victor had managed to stop his most egregious shaking, Yakov spoke in that kind voice only his students ever hear:  “Rink. Tomorrow. Compulsories. Two hours.”

 

“...Yes, Coach...”

  
  
  
  



	12. Chapter Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, Everyone,
> 
> Sorry for the slight delay for this update; but the story is now complete! Thank you to everyone who has been joining me on this fun little journey; chapter 13 will be posted promptly after 12 has loaded. Thank you for your patience! Please, Enjoy.
> 
> ~Ceile

 

“Victor, what are your plans for next season?”

 

Different country, different competition, different reporters…the press conference was droning on and on, taking twice as long as usual since most all of the questions had to be translated from Japanese to English, and then the competitor’s answers had to be translated back. The men were always last to go, and he was already bored and unfocused by the time it was their turn at the table,  and he didn’t even remember his answers, only the questions.

 

The same damn questions, over and over, the different languages didn’t change that,  and, he supposed, he had provided the same type of vague and silly answers, over and over too.

 

He should be happy.  Yakov should be happy.  Everyone should just be shitting rainbows and glitter and unicorns and all should be right with the world because Victor Nikiforov is adored once again as the World Champion, now for the fifth time, and by a considerable margin again thanks to getting his ass in gear after his wake-up call at Russian Nationals.

 

The.  Fifth. Time.

 

“Victor, now that the season is winding down, please tell us:  what was the inspiration behind your free skate?”

 

He didn’t remember how he answered that question, even a few seconds after he’d spoken, but he was pretty sure that he had said it was about his dog Makkachin.  

 

_ Stay Close To Me and Never Leave…. _

 

But Yuuri left, or, rather, Victor had left that room in Sochi and Yuuri hadn’t reached out to him since.

 

_ Cheri, you need to forget him. _

 

And, oh, how he had tried.  He tried until his feet were covered in blisters from practice, until he had perfected his free skate to a level which even Yakov agreed that it was exactly what it should be, until he put a wall around himself at the rink and only opened a few bricks here and there to let Yuri Plisetsky pass through to be mentored, only to be called an asshole for his trouble, until he had worked so hard he almost couldn’t think about anything but the ice.

 

Almost.

 

Since Russian Nationals, it was always almost.  

 

He had almost sent Yuuri another Direct Message on Instagram after Nationals, but, after he found out the results of Japan’s Nationals,  he didn’t know what to say that wouldn’t come off cheap and fake and maybe a little patronizing. So he didn’t. No need to repeat the Commemorative Photo Incident, even over a message.

 

He had almost Direct Messaged Phichit Chulanont after the Four Continents: 

 

“Hi, Skater I Only Know Your Name, but I know you have a Fucking Gorgeous Roommate (thanks for all the stealth shots, btw! <3 I totally get the Thirsty Yuuri Katsuki Fan tag now.  Genius! And #Katsudamn?! W(°O°)W !!  _ Triple genius! _  God, that boy is  _ hot _ !  How did you get those pictures?! What the hell?!  Does he have an identical twin or is that really the real Yuuri Katsuki?!  I MUST KNOW!!). I want you to pass this note from me to him because I am  _ definitely _ not a twelve year old in Junior High, and I really am Victor Nikiforov,  _ really!, _ this is my real Insta, NOT A FAKE ACCOUNT!!, and I’m  _ totally _ not stalking him, I just want to talk to him again and he’s IMPOSSIBLE to contact!, and who is your coach again, and is that a poster of ME in that one photo?! Is that yours or his, pleasepleasepleaseplease  TELL ME!!! In any case, I’m flattered! I’ll sign it for him! Or for you, but then I’ll probably ask you to give it to him, so, sorry about that, no, I’m being truthful here, so I’m not sorry. <3 Is it too soon to say I Love You to whichever one of you owns that poster? As long as it’s his?  Or yours, that I signed, and then you gave it to him so it’s his now? Too soon? So anyway, Phichit, can I call you Phichit? I mean, we’re both skaters, right? We’re friends right? Anyway, can you tell Yuuri to call me? Can you tell Yuuri I want to talk to him? Just talking. He only has to talk.  Or, really, he only has to text me and then he only has to read when I text him back. Does he EVER read DMs?! Tell him I’m jealous that you share a room with him and how on God’s Green Earth did you get so lucky, and are you sleeping with him, and you better not be sleeping with him, but are you sleeping with him?!?!””  

 

Yeah, he and the vodka actually typed that; the draft he hadn’t deleted told him so.  Thank God he had managed to find some tiny shred of dignity which prevented him from actually sending it.   

 

He was barely making it through the press conference at all, especially after one reporter’s comment had reached his ears and shot straight through like a drill to his gut:  “It’s no surprise that you won gold tonight, Victor; Aria was beautiful, perhaps the best it has been all season. Surely, you were not skating it for your dog. Please tell us:  are there any special off-season announcements that you are planning to make?”

 

_ It’s no surprise that you won gold tonight, Victor… _

 

It’s no surprise…

 

No.

 

Surprise. 

 

Without surprise, who was Victor Nikiforov anyway?

 

Were there any special off-season announcements?

 

Would it be special for him to run off to god-knows-where with the first beautiful man he could meet at the first bar he could visit in the off-season and let the tabloids have their fill?

 

Would it be special if he flew to Detroit and demanded that Yuuri explain himself in person so the Japanese skater couldn’t ignore him anymore?

 

Would it be special if he started to  _ lose _ next season because he was so fucking old and had no idea what kind of program he should be performing anymore?

 

Would that be special enough?  To see  _ The _ Victor Nikiforov miss the podium?

 

Would it be special if he just said “Fuck it” and  _ retired _ ?  

 

He remembered putting a finger to his lips and flirting with the reporter a little instead, saying something like, “Oh you know I can’t tell you anything like that, even if you are simply too cute for words!”  as he pushed the twisting down and swallowed the bile of not knowing what he was going to do about the next season, or about Yuuri, or about himself, or his life, or love. 

 

Maybe he really should just forget about those two L words.  

 

That night in Sochi had been an aberration.  It had been a fluke of the circumstances of his own melancholy after the competition, of his own failed optimism that something could be different after the banquet and his time together with Yuuri, of his own weakness that allowed his heart to stir for that beautiful Japanese man, of the ridiculous notion that Yuuri would be someone he could hold onto, that Yuuri would change everything and he wouldn’t have to worry anymore about what type of person Victor Nikiforov might really be, or about what kind of life he would have when the skating was over.

 

Obviously, he couldn’t totally stop thinking about Yuuri since his Nationals, even as he focused on his training, even as he perfected Aria to the level of a PCS standard only his Yuuri could rival…

 

Wait.

 

_ His _ Yuuri?

 

_ His? _

 

Oh God.

 

Yuuri wasn’t his at all.  Victor needed to stop this.  He needed To.  _ Stop _ .

 

Victor was at Worlds, in  _ Japan _ for goodness’ sake, and Yuuri was nowhere to be seen.  He had gathered from following Phichit Chulanont and from the statisticians at home that Yuuri trained at the DSC in Detroit; could there be an irony more stupid than this?  Here Victor was, practically in the man’s back garden, and where was Yuuri?! 

 

In.  Fucking.   _ Detroit _ .

 

Even Phichit’s Instagram, that he  _ wasn’t _ stalking, he  _ wasn’t! _ ,  had a severe drought recently of Yuuri pictures, and Victor didn’t know what to make of that.  It worried him. After nailing it in practice day in and day out since Russian Nationals to do his best to forget so that Yakov would think he was over it, it worried him.   No matter what Victor did to tax his body and concentration on the ice, as soon as he stepped off from it, he knew he wasn’t over it. 

 

Yakov probably knew it too, but, thankfully, he hadn’t pushed him about it either.  He just barked his instructions out from the boards and Victor allowed the gruff voice to wash over him, allowed himself to become immersed in his work, his art, his creation.

 

His Prayer.

 

Agape.

 

A hope, a comfort…

 

And then, Eros.

 

A memory, a wanting…

 

Ideas.  Yuuri’s dancing had given him another chance at inspiration; he couldn’t forget it, and he wasn’t sure how earnestly he was actually trying to.  The still-vague concepts flirted around the distant corners of thought and feeling as he skated Aria in practice, or as he played its alternate version Duetto while he showered at home to wash off the day’s sweat and work.  Storge, Philia, Agape, and Eros: separate loves, felt by one, expanded by two, and, maybe, if he could open himself up enough to believe in it, they could be made whole by God.

 

And, to him, Yuuri was the embodiment of all.  There would be no way one short program could do justice to them all at the same time, but, maybe a program could be so beautifully choreographed, so beautifully executed, that it could do justice to one of them.  

 

One short program.  One love. 

 

It was still just an idea, but how to choose?  If a person could only experience one love to the fullest, which one should it be?  Of the four, the moves he was imagining gravitated most toward Eros and Agape, but, hadn’t he sort of done something similar before?  So many years, so many programs...he honestly couldn’t be sure and that bothered him.

 

Which one would surprise the audience more?

 

And still, with no recent glimpses of Yuuri, and no messages to or from of any kind, Victor worried about the silence and what meaning it could possibly possess.

 

It worried him when he would leave the rink for the day and return to his too-large-for-one-man-plus-dog apartment.  It worried him when he had started to make his phone calls to commission the music for the next season to see if hearing it would help him to choose.  It worried him when he drank the vodka or the wine alone before settling into bed and holding on to Makkachin for dear life to combat the cold of his apartment and its half-broken, outdated heating system that the building superintendent swore was neither half-broken nor outdated at all.

Having no further contact with Yuuri worried him, even when he tried to ignore it, even when he was cheating on his diet with homemade latte flavored with the exquisite chocolate that Chris had given to him for his birthday.  The gift came along with a couple of other less-than-polite presents that he hadn’t made occasion to use with anyone, despite Chris’s urging in a salacious note penned within the card for him to go find someone with whom to try them out.  And the postscript indicated, naturally, that Chris wanted a full report and photographic proof of same. 

 

He thought about it.  He did. He did more than think about it, once, after the 4Cs came and went with still no word from Yuuri.

 

He went so far as to let himself be chatted up at a nightclub by an obscenely attractive man who bought him ridiculously expensive drinks, who flattered him and brushed his hands in all the right places and said almost all the right things, and who wore the right shade of charcoal gray Armani and had the right Louboutin oxfords, and who had the wrong color eyes and the wrong color hair and was the wrong height and the wrong build and, and, and-

 

“I think I know you…” the man had said, walking up behind him after Victor had accepted the drink and raised his glass toward him when the bartender pointed out who had bought it.

 

“Is that so?”

 

“Yeah.  Are you here with anyone tonight, Mr. Nikiforov?”

 

No.  He wasn’t.  He’d bailed on some of the rinkmates after dinner seeing as he was sort of a “fifth wheel”, or was it a “seventh wheel”?  Anyway, having dinner with a bunch of couples was low-key pissing him off and it was all he could do to keep up the fake-pleasantries, especially with Anya not-so-subtly scanning the room for other eye-candy while Georgi was too in love with her to notice.  Georgi didn’t deserve that. Mila was starry-eyed over Alexei The Hockey Player None of Them Liked, especially Victor, and Vanya and his fiance/ ice dance partner Ekaterina comprised the third couple. Supposedly, Mila’s friend Yuliya from the gymnastics team was to attend as well to round out their group, but she had unfortunately suffered a sprain earlier in the day and had to beg off.  Which left Victor the odd one out at a table set for eight which had turned into seven instead. Great. 

 

Was he really a pathetic  _ has-been _ when even  _ Georgi _ had a dinner partner and he didn’t?  Of course, it was only  _ Anya _ , but still!   He drank more than the others, but not to the point where clothes would be coming off and to where it might have gotten fun; he wasn’t going to do that with Alexei there, the lone “manly” hockey player surrounded by figure skaters who was all over Mila but didn’t exactly appreciate the men who were involved in her sport, even the straight ones he only somewhat believed were actually straight.  So Victor wasn’t going to make a scene out of respect for Mila and her questionable choices; she was young and had to learn that Alexei was kind of a dick all by her little self, Victor supposed. Victor wondered if Mila didn’t actually mention to Alexei who their dinner companions were to be at all; it was sort of a surprise that he was actually there.

 

When they wanted to further the evening and go dancing together, Victor declined and went his own way, intending just to go home, but, somehow, as if on some sort of bad-decision-making autopilot, he didn’t.  And that was how he found himself at another club, with the aesthetically pleasing man buying him drinks and hitting on him, and Victor was just tipsy enough and touch-starved enough to let him.

 

“No, I’m not here with anyone in particular,” he remembered replying blandly.

 

He heard the hum of approval from the man as he ordered them another drink, brushing his fingertips ever-so-slightly on Victor’s shoulder as he leaned over the bar to get the attention of the barkeep.

 

He was wearing Burberry Indigo, a little cliché, but pleasing enough.  He wasn’t committing any crimes against fashion either, and he was manicured to perfection.  Fine. Fuck it.

 

“I don’t suppose you have a name,” he said in a flirty tone, “it’s quite unfair that you know who I am, yet I don’t know who you are.”

 

“I have a name.”

 

“Ah.  But you’re not intending to use it, are you?”  he quipped.

 

“You can call me anything you want, Mr. Nikiforov; may I call you Victor?”

 

Why the fuck not?  It’s not like he was really in disguise or anything.  But then...

 

_ Bictoru… _

 

Stop.

 

This wasn’t Yuuri.  No. Yuuri wasn’t calling him anything anymore, he wasn’t calling him at all.  Fine. He needed to get over it, right? He  _ needed _ …

 

He signaled the bartender for two shots of vodka which he promptly downed himself, surprising the man by not offering him one of them, but eliciting a little chuckle from him.  He knew he was about to punch another ticket for a trainwreck, but he was definitely getting drunk enough not to care.

 

“Hmm.  How about no names,” Victor said after sipping his cocktail to chase the shots, changing his mind about wanting to actually get to know Mr. GQ.  That was a good enough pseudonym, and it described the man well anyway. “That way, I can also pretend you have no idea who I am at all.”

 

Mr. GQ studied him as he sipped his drink and gave him a quizzical look.  “You have the look of a man who is trying to forget someone.”

 

Shit.  Was he really that obvious?  Really?! Wow. Just...wow. Two more shots please.  And, he supposed, one for Mr. GQ too for shits and giggles.  “Oh? I forget a lot of people,” he returned flippantly, switching on the charm, turning up the  _ persona _ that paid his fucking bills, amping up the savage because rich, powerful men, as he assumed this nameless beauty was, always enjoyed the thrill of the chase.   “I’ll probably forget  _ you _ by tomorrow.”

 

Toward this, the man huffed a small laugh again as he drank the one shot he was given as Victor knocked back both of his own.  He took out a pack of cigarettes and lit one, offering him a drag which Victor declined, taking out an untouched cigarette for himself instead.  “You don’t mind, do you?”

 

“Hmm...I didn’t think athletes such as yourself would permit themselves to smoke,”  he remarked casually as he provided a light. God, it had been a very long while since he had, and he didn’t even know why he was doing it, he just acted on impulse.  Maybe he just felt like breaking all the rules. After all, he never really excelled at following them in the first place since  _ forever _ .

 

“We don’t, generally.  But I tend to go with the mood, and my coach isn’t here to bitch about it so...”  he trailed off with a wink and a shrug and a slow but shallow drag of the cigarette followed by a quick exhalation to send the smoke streaming upward and toward the ceiling.  

 

“I like the mood here,” Mr. GQ commented, “and I definitely appreciate the view.  You  _ are _ beautiful in person. But I’m sure you know that, and I’m sure you’ve heard that plenty of times.”

 

“Of course I have,”  he responded, “You won’t be the last person to tell me that, but that doesn’t mean I don’t like hearing it.”  He took a couple of more drags before he put the half-finished smoke out in the ashtray and sipped the remainder of his cocktail. 

 

“I must confess that I don’t follow figure skating all that closely,”  Mr. GQ remarked. 

 

Small talk.  Cute. But unnecessary, wasn’t it?   Damn it. Hadn’t he recently scolded Chris for being  _ gauche _ for picking up a man in a bar?!   And here he was himself, doing the same goddamn thing, and with an actual stranger no less!  Well, _ technically _ ,  _ he _ was the one getting picked up, so it wasn’t quite the same, right?  Damn it. Of course it was the same. Shit. At least Chris sort of knew Anatoly.  Was Victor really a thirsty slut as his friend had proclaimed? Whatever. Chris didn’t need his damn photographic proof.  He was going the nameless route anyway, right? If that made him a slut, then maybe he was a slut. The vodka and the sickly sweet Amaretto in his cocktail was helping him to not give two shits about it either.  He came here subconsciously; that had to be telling him it was time to forget Sochi, time to forget Yuuri Katsuki who was fucking  _ great _ at dissing him, a goddamn  _ professional _ at it, right?  Mr. GQ was getting hotter by the minute as a result of the booze, and the music spewing from the DJ booth was getting dirtier as the hour wore on.  “That’s fine. I’m not interested in other skaters typically.”

 

That’s right.  Because other skaters weren’t interested in him either aside from getting a fantastic blow job.  Right, Yuuri?

 

“I do confess to following your modeling career, though,”  Mr. GQ returned in a sultry tone, thankfully and effectively stopping the Yuuri Downward Spiral of 20-whatever the fuck year this was.  “I saw you on the red carpet last year in Milan at the Prada show. You always look best in Prada, I do believe.”

 

Well, now.  That was a nice compliment.  He did look  _ great _ in Prada.  He was wearing Prada that very moment too, and he knew Mr. GQ knew it.  “Ah, yes, I do favor it. How kind of you to notice.”

 

“I definitely noticed your print ad for them for last year’s Winter Collection.  Stunning.”

 

Victor didn’t remember it.  But he didn’t not-believe Mr. GQ either.  “Thank you.”

 

“I could buy you something, anything you wish.  Prada, Chanel, Givenchy...whatever strikes your fancy.”

 

“I buy my own Prada, Mr. GQ.”

 

Yeah, he said it aloud.  Fuck it.

 

Another huffing little laugh.  It wasn’t unpleasant. Neither was the slight pressure of the man’s free hand on the small of his back.  “Of course. Pardon the intrusion.”

 

“You just want to dress me up, don’t you?”

 

“Actually, Gorgeous, I would like to  _ un _ dress you.”

 

Okay.  Here we go.  Should he punch that ticket on the bad-decision train now, or should he get some more free booze out of it first?  “That could be an option,” he responded coyly, putting a finger to his lips. Adopting a more serious tone, he added,  “No photos.”

 

“Fair enough.”

 

“No videos.”

 

“Also fair; I have my own concerns about such things.”

 

“Hmm.”  Toward this, Victor felt his glance slide down to the man’s perfectly manicured hand once again as it rested encircled around his glass.  And that’s when he noticed the patch of paler skin around the finger of Mr. GQ’s right hand where a wedding ring probably sat when he wasn’t out hitting on men in upscale yet down-low gay establishments.  “Yes, we wouldn’t want your pretty wife to know that you want to fuck me, right?”

 

The man recoiled a bit, unconsciously releasing his grip from the tumbler and curling his perfectly manicured fingers in toward the palm of his hand before he unfurled them once again.  “Does that matter to you?”

 

Victor considered.  This had happened before and it never really affected him one way or another because it wasn’t like he was looking for a relationship or anything.  Did it matter? Did anything?

 

“Does it matter to her?”

 

Mr. GQ finished his cocktail.  “Probably,” he replied simply, “it doesn’t change the fact that I’m here and you’re here and I very much would like to fuck you.”

 

“How about you dance with me first.”

 

Mr. GQ had a sort of uneven smile, but his teeth were perfect, and he obviously used some product; even in the near-darkness, he was shockingly good looking, made even more so by the alcohol, and he didn’t seem to mind anonymous, or blunt, and seemed to understand that this wasn’t about feelings or frustration or being pissed off.  It was about two of the Beautiful People having sex.

 

Nameless, distant, and, hopefully, ridiculously gratuitous sex, preferably in a 5 Star Hotel that had at least a 2+ Michelin Star restaurant available for breakfast.

 

“Sounds lovely,” Mr. GQ affirmed, placing his hand upon Victor’s; he definitely didn’t “work” for a living with soft hands like that.  Whatever he might be in his regular life, it probably involved a huge corner office the size of Victor’s apartment and a massive desk where he probably liked to bend someone over it from time to time.  He’d never done that desk-work-fantasy thing, but he wasn’t about to start. Luxe hotel or nothing, and Mr. GQ better fucking realize it.

 

He allowed himself to be led onto the dance floor, and it was like he was unable to find a common rhythm with the man, so he gave up and settled for having a nice, albeit near-stationary, sway on the dance floor.  Mr. GQ did have one talent; a talent for scoping out people taking cell phone pictures. He managed to move enough to avoid them. That was a pretty good skill and, if Victor was sober enough to think, which he  _ wasn’t _ , he might ask him for a few tips on that.  But he wasn’t even close to sober anymore. He was getting hot, getting a little turned on when the soft hands pulled on his shirt enough to loosen it from the waistband of his Prada trousers and settle warmly at the small of his back.  Mr. GQ leaned in to whisper into his ear: “I think about 95% of the people in this room want to be me right now…,” he breathed, nipping the shell of his ear just slightly with his perfect teeth.

 

Victor made a show of fake-scanning the room.  “More like 99%. Don’t insult me.”

 

The huffing laugh was hot in his ear, “Of course, Gorgeous.  99%. Do you want another drink, malysh?”

 

No.  He was not “malysh”.  That was Yuuri. Fuck.  

 

“Don’t call me that.  Gorgeous is fine. And another two shots of vodka for my forgiveness of your careless error just now.”

 

“Hmmm...you are pretty blunt, aren’t you?”  

 

Victor didn’t bother to answer with anything but drinking the vodka that was produced by a tray held by nicely done-up drag queen of a waitress.  He was feeling good, still low-key pissed, but that could be cured. He could be cured of Yuuri Katsuki. He could be his old stupid self and no one besides Chris and Yakov would be any the wiser to his momentary lapse of that in Sochi.

 

“I like that you know what you want, and you know how to get it,” the man breathed, leaning in for a kiss.  It was chaste, and short because Victor pulled back. No. He didn’t want that. 

 

“No kissing.”

 

“Anywhere?”  the man challenged.

 

Victor had to think about that.  “Do you need to kiss me to fuck me?”

 

“Not really...but I would be lying if I said I didn’t want to kiss every goddamn inch of you.  And hearing those words out of such a pretty mouth...”

 

Victor had to get his drunk brain to kick in again.  Something was stirring in his gut, and it wasn’t the alcohol, and it wasn’t arousal; he didn't know what the fuck it was, but he knew for sure that he didn’t want Mr. GQ to kiss him on his lips.  No. “Not on the mouth,” he finally breathed out when lips pressed gently on his cheek.

 

He detected a little sigh of disappointment before Mr. GQ agreed with another “Fair enough.”

 

What the hell was he doing?  Why was he like this, allowing the soft hands to wander, allowing himself to feel Mr. GQ’s erection to press against his thigh through their mutual 1200+ EUR trousers?  Allowing the lips to travel as close to his own lips as the man dared before pulling away to adhere to the “Not on the mouth” rule he impulsively laid down?

 

And, dear God.  The song now playing might as well have been the soundtrack for an assortment of other nights like this one throughout his life.   _ Why was he like this?! _  Why was he drunk and getting into it?  Why was he getting hard when this man, while admittedly hot as fuck,  was a  _ shit _ dancer?  

 

_...You know it's not about romance _

_ It's just about what’s in your pants _

 

_ Screw hello _

_ You had me at sex _

_ Don't need no intro _

_ Let's skip to the bed _

_ From the head to your toes _

_ Legs up over your head _

_ From begs to moans _

_ We're both seeing red _

 

_ Some believe in love at first sight _

_ But this is just lust on the first night _

_ If it turns into more than that's alright _

_ But right now I don't want your kiss _

_ You know it's not about romance _

_ It's just about what’s in your pants _

 

Why was Yuuri so fucking sexy?  What if it was Yuuri, and not Mr. GQ and this song was playing?  Oh God...Death By Thighs. Among other things. Like stripping. Like pole dancing.  Like fucking  _ lap _ dancing.  And there would be kissing.  So much kissing. So much...

 

_ I want your bite _

_ Wanna feel your teeth on my neck _

_ Wanna taste the salt of your sweat _

_ Gonna rock your body all night _

_ It's lust at first sight _

 

_ The way you're making me hot _

_ Don't stop, you're hitting the spot _

_ Gonna rock your body all night _

_ It's lust at first sight _

 

The shit dancing, the press of teeth and lips to his neck as suggested by the naughty song, and Victor knew.  He knew he had to stop this. Even as he was drunkenly losing track of things between his thoughts of Yuuri and the physical demand of the bites and of the firm grip of Mr. GQ on his body as things got heated on the dancefloor, he knew he had to stop this.  Even as he was breathing in rasps and aching for hands and a mouth on him to bring him off, he knew he had to stop this. Even as Mr. GQ led him out the back exit and into his waiting limo, he knew he had to stop this. Even as they checked in to the 5 Star Hotel and landed on the ridiculous thread-count sheets, he knew he had to stop this.  As his shirt came off and his partner shucked down his trousers, he knew he had to stop this.

 

He had to  _ Stop. This. _

 

Yuuri deserved better than this.  He deserved better than him. He deserved everything.

 

And he couldn’t stop the kisses laid down on his chest or the compliments dripping from that man’s mouth; he cursed the treachery of his body for getting aroused by them, cursed wanting to be fucked, by  _ Yuur _ i, cursed for both  _ wanting _ and  _ not _ wanting to be fucked by Mr. GQ.  Was he actually cursed?  _ Was he? _

_ Why was he like this?! _

 

Why did he leave the nightclub with this man?  Why did he find himself in this situation  _ again _ , drunk, achingly aroused, involuntarily gasping for air as hands explored his most intimate places, places that were supposed to be reserved for a  _ lover,  _ or, if that wasn’t possible, at least it should be reserved for a close friend like Chris,  and definitely not for this well-dressed stranger? 

 

“You are Gorgeous…”

 

No shit. 

 

“Beautiful…”

 

Whatever.  Hurry up and get it over with.

 

“You’ve been beautiful for a long time, you know...we’re about the same age…”

 

“Stop talking.”

 

He didn’t.

 

“Did you know that you and your fashion magazine spreads helped me to survive my school years hmm?  That long hair made you look like an angel...I was shocked when you cut it...”

 

Huh.  Sure. Another one with the hair kink, or an androgyny kink, or whatever.  Oh no, he was about to run his mouth again and he didn’t have any sobriety to control it.  “Maybe you should stop remembering being an awkward teenager and fucking blow me.” 

 

He heard a low rumble escape the man’s throat as he bit down hard on his neck.  “Let me kiss you on that dirty mouth, Vitya…”

 

_ What?! _

 

Oh  _ hell  _ no.

 

_ “Get off me! _ ” he spat. Victor pushed the man off of him with relative ease despite the fact that he was drunk and the man easily had about 20 kilos and six centimeters on him.   He bolted from the bed, staggered a little, and grabbed his shirt and threw it on as he strode toward the door.

 

He was so,  _ so _ drunk, and this was so,  _ so _ , wrong, and all he wanted to do was to reach the door and turn the knob and escape into the corridor.  His stomach was twisting again into knots: how  _ dare _ this stranger call him  _ Vitya _ when they weren’t supposed to be using names at all,  when he had not gotten the chance to hear Yuuri call him that, not  _ once _ ?!  How  _ dare  _ he touch him as though he was touching the come-stained magazines of his youth brought to life, when Yuuri had touched him with desire, but a desire that had and undercurrent of care and even reverence, or maybe even _ love _ held within it?  

 

“Where do you think you’re going?”  

 

Before he realized what was happening, he was pulled back from the egress and into the arms of Mr. GQ with his back against the man’s firm chest.  “I’m leaving. I’ll pay for the room, just let me leave.”

 

“Oh no, I don’t think I like that idea.  Sorry for letting the name slip out, but you can’t think to walk away now, can you?”

 

“Fine.  I’ll suck you off then I’ll leave.  ‘Fair enough’?” he hissed, throwing the man’s own words back upon him.  Honestly, if he was thinking about things rationally, which he  _ wasn’t, _ Mr. GQ really hadn’t done anything wrong.  He really hadn’t. Victor couldn’t blame him for being pissed.  It was pretty obvious that expectations were set that there would be fucking involved.  No kissing, but fucking.

 

“You really can’t forget whoever it is that you’re trying so hard to forget tonight.  Can you…” the man remarked quietly, a hand traveling south and unbuttoning his trousers before Victor reclaimed enough inebriated presence of mind to shove it away.     
  


“Fuck you.”

 

“Now that’s more like it.  Tell me, did he call you Vitya?  Is that why I cannot?”

 

“Shut up.”

 

“Or maybe you never got that far,” the man mused, nibbling on his ear again and, _ goddamnit,  _ why did it feel so good?!  Why was he still so drunk?!  “Maybe you wanted him to, and it never happened.  That’s tragic. What was he thinking? He’d have to be without a  _ pulse _ not to want  _ you _ .”

 

“If you want that blow job, you need to Stop. Talking.”

 

“Ah.  Avoidance.  Okay. I told you that you could call me anything you wanted to; I negotiate for a living.  I’m happy to negotiate with you, Angel. Pretend I’m What’s His Name, and let me have you, Gorgeous.”

 

Oh God. No.

 

He was not going to do that.  No. He had no right to bring Yuuri into some drunk fucked up fantasy game.  No right at all.

 

“Sorry.  We’re done.  Bill me for the room and the drinks; just send it to Yubileyniy.  And Hands.  _ Off _ .”

 

“Now I’m sorry because, no.  Not a fair trade now that I’ve already been able to touch you.  Give me something else and we’ll call it even. No names. No strings.”

 

Shit.  

 

“Then I need more shots.”

 

“Of course you do, Angel.”

 

This was wrong.  This was Not Good, definitely among the most Not Good things he’d ever done in his entire history of doing Not Good things like this.  It had been a while too; he’d mostly stopped doing it. And here he was, reverting back to old habits too, too easily, and he didn’t even have enough decency not to want it.

 

Because he did.  He did want those hands.  He did want that mouth. He did  _ want. _ ..

 

He awoke the following morning hungover, sore, naked, and filthy tucked inside the gazillion-thread-count sheets.

 

And so very alone.

 

He looked toward the nightstand and there was a note slid under his phone which started ringing for effect.  Great. He knew that ringtone. He grabbed for it and slid his finger across the screen and croaked out a “Hello?” before the yelling started.

 

“ _ Vitya!  _  Where the hell are you?!”

 

“I’m...not sure,” he whispered.

 

A long-suffering sigh was the initial response before Yakov spoke again:  “You’re three hours late. Figure out where you  _ are _ , get home,  _ clean up _ , feed your damn  _ dog, _ and get your ass over here.”  His tone was hushed, but Victor knew that would not last long.

 

“Yes, Coach.”

 

Wait for it...wait for it...  

 

“And if you fuck up even ONE GODDAMN jump at practice today because of whatever you got into last night, your ass will be  _ mine _ from now to Worlds!  And I don’t mean it in the  _ pleasurable _ sense!  NOW GET YOUR BUTT TO THE RINK!”

 

Click.

 

Ah~~he hadn’t heard that speech in a while.  Shit.

 

He tossed the phone onto the mattress and looked toward the small slip of paper on the nightstand.  Should he even bother to read it?

 

Oh, why not?

 

He picked it up:  “You’re Beautiful, Victor Nikiforov.  And also an amazing fuck. That man, whoever he is,  doesn’t know what he’s missing. Stay as long you want, leave whenever you want.  If you want to do this again, I’ve instructed the Front Desk to provide for you my contact info.  No strings. Unless you decide you want them, of course. Tell the Concierge the suite number and he will call for my car service to take you where you need to go.”

 

Well, wasn’t that just fucking great.

 

And he did fuck up one goddamn jump that day, and his ass did belong to Yakov all the way to Worlds, and it definitely was not in the pleasurable sense.

 

And all he could think about as he shed yet another night of poor decision-making was how he didn’t deserve Yuuri Katsuki at all.  But, he could not forget him, no matter that there was still nothing on Instagram, nothing on the dot-com sites of any sports network; it was as though the Japanese skater had truly disappeared.

 

Before the flight to Worlds, he did one last check of Phichit’s Insta:  still  _ nothing _ . 

 

Victor had been forgotten by now, he was sure.  

 

And yet, whenever his fingers scrolled through the pictures Yuri Plisetsky had sent to him of their dance, he saw the joy in his own face that he almost never saw when he looked in the mirror every day.  Who was that man with the silver hair? Was that him? Was that really him who looked upon his gorgeous dance partner with utter adoration and joy? 

 

Could he get that back somehow?

 

Or would he just decide to become the amazing fuck of an anonymous partner who only wanted him for a side-piece away from his wife?

 

No.  He still wanted Yuuri, he still worried about Yuuri.

 

Always Yuuri.  

 

What the hell went wrong?!  He must have asked that question of himself and of Makkachin a million times since that night in Sochi, and he still didn’t know the answer.

 

It worried him straight into making his performance of Aria at Worlds a plea instead of a program.

 

A plea that looked with each passing week as though it would never be answered.

 

The lack of Yuuri-tagged posts on the Thai skater’s account made Victor think of that news article that flashed upon his phone, declaring a rumor that Yuuri Katsuki was about to retire from the sport.  There had been others like that in the interim, and Victor had avoided reading most of them, hoping for some other result to appear instead when he’d added an alert to his social media for Yuuri Katsuki and Katsuki Yuuri and  勝生 勇利 and  カツキ  ユーリ.

 

No recent party candids with a glimpse of Yuuri’s dancing.  No clips of Yuuri practicing his beautiful steps in practice pants that clung to his body to cause Death By Thighs for viewers of the video.  No pictures of Yuuri holding his hand in front of his face in defense of an ambush photo, when the shot was mainly intending to show off his freshly showered physique anyway;  Phichit really was some kind of genius. And there had been others; goofing off at the rink, blurry shots at what Victor supposed were college parties, shots of Yuuri without his glasses, drunk and wearing a very pleasingly tight outfit of a black v-neck t-shirt and black jeans, and smirking with a homemade beauty-pageant sash declaring him to be the “King of Quarters”, whatever that was, and tagged with the elusive, rare, yet  _ coveted _ #Katsudamn!.  No pictures of Yuuri sleeping face-planted between the pages of a ridiculously drab looking textbook with glasses askew and, maybe,  _ maybe _ , a little drool escaping over those pink lips that had so passionately touched his own in that hotel room... 

 

Not to mention his own pictures that he had taken and collected from the Sochi banquet that he’d perused over and over again at times in various states of sobriety, when he caught himself wondering if that night had even happened at all.  Maybe Chris was onto something when he always wanted photographic proof of everything…

 

“Gentlemen~~~~!!!  Photographs, please!”  called out an event coordinator, snapping him out of the reverie he’d lapsed into during Otabek and Chris’s remarks and as they were ushered in front of the press table to pose for the photos. 

 

Was there a club near the rink where he could re-enact Paris with Chris instead of having another disastrous night with another Mr. GQ,  where he could get lost in drink and dancing bodies and the familiar comfort of Chris’s breath hotly whispering in his ear, his hand around his dick, or his own mouth around Chris, or, or…

 

Maybe he could go on like that after all, and maybe Chris would go along with his flights of fancy some more, and maybe that would be enough for him.  Maybe he should tell Chris this idea and see what happens? 

 

As the cameras strobed for the photo-ops with the three medalists, Victor used his last drops of energy to put on a dazzling smile and loosely drape an arm about the shoulder of Otabek Altin and his other arm behind Chris’s back and gently settled upon his waist; it wasn’t the fans’ fault that he felt like this, like his inspiration was almost gone, despite the familiar comfort of Chris standing with him on the podium and the certain unknown presence he had felt from Otabek Altin during his Silver Medal performance.  It wasn’t the reporters’ fault that they wanted to know the meaning behind Aria; he hadn’t really counted on any of them picking up on the evolution of the program throughout the season from being about the Ice to being about...someone. This was his job: win the Gold, be gracious, be Victor, be everything they want, and figure out how to give them all exactly what they want for next season before they even realize they want it. 

 

They were finally excused and the three medalists found their way back to the locker room, which had been long since deserted due to the extremely lengthy presser, and they quietly gathered their belongings, doing that customary check to avoid leaving anything behind.  He was fiddling with the stubborn zipper on his roller bag when he noticed two knees directly in front of his field of vision. He looked up and saw the silver medalist, his face as stoic as ever, but looking as though he wanted to say something. “Hi~, Otabek, congratulations for today.  I hope to see you again really soon!” he said cheerfully, raising himself to full height and offering a handshake which the younger skater reciprocated.

 

“Thank you, Victor.  It was a pleasure competing with you.”

 

Eh?  What was with that tone?  Victor didn’t know. Was he always this serious sounding?  Did he mean anything by it? Like, as in, sort of, did Otabek think he was  _ retiring _ or something?!

 

He put his finger to his lips and smiled.  “I’ll see you next season! Looks like I need to make sure I can keep up!” he declared with a wink, “Of course, I’ll see you at the banquet and the ex-skate, right?”

 

“Yes.  Yes you will see me at both,”  the Kazakh skater deadpanned. Really.  Who  _ was _ this guy?!

 

“Great!  Perfect~~~!  Do you want a hug?”

 

Otabek shook his head slightly in the negative, but offered his own hand for another handshake instead.  “I’ll see you, Victor,” he said, in Russian, “Amazing performance tonight.”

 

“Ah...spasibo.”

 

With that, the youngest of the three left the locker room and, just like it had been in Sochi, he and Chris were left alone.  “Well he’s a charmer,” Chris drawled sarcastically.

 

Victor just shrugged.  “He’s young.”

 

“And we’re not, right?”

 

He shrugged again.  Did he really need to dignify that with a response?  No. Chris was probably just feeling the relative pain of being the Bronze Medalist, outscored by both someone older and younger than he.  Victor could cheer him up. “So are you ready for the off-season? For our week of boozing and dancing and fooling around in Punta Cana?”

 

“Yeah, sure,”  Chris grumbled noncommittally as he began to walk toward the locker room door.  “Wait-what? Are we going to Punta Cana?”

 

“You want to?” he asked with one of his bestest most hopefullest heart-shaped smiles.  “It’ll be fun! We can party all night and sleep all day on the beach!”

 

“And then you will burn to a crisp and complain incessantly about it.”

 

“Okaaaayyyy~~~ we can sleep in a luxe room all day and then spend a little bitty time at the beach!  I want to rent a jet-ski! I’m going to buy board shorts and surf!”

 

Chris clicked his tongue audibly.  “Victor. Stop. Just...stop.”

 

“Wha~at?  Won’t it be fun?  Just the two of us.  And whoever else we meet when we get there. Or, we don’t have to meet anyone.  Just the two of us, Chris.”

 

The comment hung in the stale air of the locker room, as thick as the lingering humidity of the shower room, the familiar mix of sweat and of about a hundred clashing fragrances of soaps and shampoos and deodorants and colognes, and there they stood.  

 

“I’m going home, Victor.  I need a break.”

 

Victor definitely heard the unspoken “from you” that Chris didn’t include.

 

“Okay.”

 

“You should go home too.  Hang out with your Flea Transport Vehicle.”

 

He gasped dramatically, putting a hand to his chest.  “My precious Makkachin does  _ not _ have  _ fleas! _  How  _ dare _ you!”

 

Chris just laughed and put his arm around his shoulder and squeezed.  “I just need a little break. Okay? Just a little bitty teeny tiny widdle one, cheri.  Okay?”

 

Victor exhaled, nodding with relief that Chris wasn’t actually pissed off at him; he wouldn’t be doing his “Russian Cute Speak” thing if he didn’t mean it congenially.   He did know Chris best, and Chris knew him, but he probably needed a break as much as Chris did too. They’d be okay. 

 

“Skype me whenever.  Except when you’re drunk.  See you tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song credit: I Want Your Bite/Chris Crocker. Because Slutty. :p


	13. Chapter Thirteen

Victor had done a pretty good job lately of, well, of being good.  He had. It was now the end of March, the off-season was in full swing, and he was taking care of Yuri Plisetsky just fine, and he hadn’t fooled around with anyone else at all, he hadn’t partied too much, and he hadn’t drank too,  _ too _ much, and he had been pleased with the music for Agape and Eros so much that he couldn’t wait to get on the ice each day to work on the choreography.

 

One of these programs would be sure to surprise the audience. 

 

But which one?

 

Still, he couldn’t choose.

 

And it bothered him.

 

And other things still bothered him.

 

But, Victor had been pretty good.  He only drunk-Skyped Chris once, and really,  _ honestly _ , he pushed his number by accident, and it was just a bad day, and he’d been looking at those Sochi pictures again, and it was a bad day-

 

Okay.  Maybe it wasn’t an accident.

 

“Um...hello?  This is Chris…,”  answered a half asleep Swiss skater as he fumbled around to prop up his phone and reach for his glasses.  “Oh. It’s you. Of course it is. Fuck.”

 

“Chriiii~~~~ssss!  I neeeed my frieeeeeeendddddd~~~~!”

 

“God  _ damn _ it,  Victor. It’s fucking 2 AM.  And I thought I told you Very. Clearly. That I didn’t want you drunk Skyping me for fuck’s sake!”

 

“But...Chris...I-”

 

Oh shit. No.  He was not going to cry on Chris.  He didn’t want to do that. No. Oh shit.  Here it comes. Where’s that other bottle? Oh.  There it is. He took a swig and let the burn of the vodka trail down his throat.

 

“Chris...I-...shit.  I’m sorry. I’ll hang up.  Sorry.”

 

“No!...Damn it, Victor, no.  Hang on a second. I gotta take a piss.”

 

“Okay…”

 

While he waited for Chris to return to the call, hearing a softly muttered “Drama Queen” as he stepped away, he blew his nose and wiped his eyes and took another swig of vodka.  For strength. Fortitude. For an excuse for fucking crying on his best friend.

 

Chris came back into the frame and Victor got a nice little glimpse of his very fine ass as he crawled back under the covers and settled into his pillow to face the phone.  Even in his drunken state, he took note that Chris did not have a partner in his bed. Okay.

 

“All right, my little trainwreck, what is it?”

 

“Let’s go to Punta Cana, Chris.”

 

Silence.  And, yes, barely audible, the tongue-click of annoyance.  Shit.

 

“This again?  You called me drunk in the middle of the night because you want to take a vacation?”

 

“Y-yeah.  Let’s go. First Class all the way.”

 

Makkachin put his head on Victor’s knee and looked up toward him, daring him to stop the bullshit and tell his friend the truth.  Fine, Makkachin. Fine. Just stop staring with those puppy-dog eyes. Wait. What? Fuck. It’s not like his dog could really help that.  He took a deep breath. Try again, Victor.

 

“Chris-”

 

A sigh.  “What,” he asked gently, sensing that the sunburn destination was not really what Victor wanted to talk about at all.

 

“I still haven’t heard from Yuuri.”

 

More silence.  Then, “I know.”

 

“And...there’s probably nothing I can do about it, but I keep remembering him and how I felt that night, and how beautiful and how fucking sexy he is, and I just want to see him again, and talk to him again, and kiss him and hug him and ask him why he never called me, and why his friend isn’t upping more pictures so I can see him, and then we can talk it out, you know? We can talk it out, and then-”

 

“Victor,”  his friend interrupted him sternly.    “Please, stop. You really need to stop this now.  You’ve been keeping this up for  _ months _ already.  It’s not good for you.”

 

He took another sip from the vodka bottle.  “Then come here and help me.”

 

Silence, then a rustling of Chris’s bedclothes and the phone view spazzing for a second as Chris sat up in his bed and held the phone in his hand.  “Help you with what…”

 

“Just come here.  Live with me here for a few weeks; we can use the rink and the gym, and-”

 

“What the hell are you asking me, Victor?”

 

“Help me forget about him,” he whispered.  “I’ll send you a plane ticket and just...show up.  Help me.”

 

He watched his laptop screen intently for his friend’s reaction.  He saw fingers squeeze the bridge of his nose underneath the frames of the glasses before he ran them through his close-cropped blonde curls.  “You’re drunk.”

 

_ That _ was his response?  Just that? Really? Wow.

 

“I know I’m druuuunk~~~!”  he whined, pouting, “But that doesn’t mean I’m not being totally serious right now.  Chris...please. I’m wounded. Come and kiss it better for me. You’re soooo goood at kissing, and other stuff, and we can do other stuff, but I want you to kisssss meeee~~~!”

 

Chris groaned.  “Okay, Victor, here’s the thing.  I care for you, and you’re fucking gorgeous, and you give The Best Blowjobs, and, in a weird sort of messed-up way, I love you, okay?  There. I said it. I  _ fucking _ love you to pieces.”

 

“Reaallllyyyy~~~?!?!”  Yes! This was  _ great! _  Chris really did Love Him, and he really would come and kiss it better, right?   _ Right?! _  He took another sip of vodka and it tasted more like success than sorrow, and everything would be perfect, because Chris would come and be with him, and share his apartment for a few weeks, and his bed, and his bath bombs, and they could have latte every day since it was the off-season, and they could drink The Best Vodka, and make-out a lot together, and they could probably have great sex together, and practice together and go jogging together with Makkachin, and go shopping together, and they could make Yuri Plisetsky’s life miserable together, and-

 

“But…”

 

Eh?  Huh? There was a “but” to this that wasn’t attached to Chris’s amazing body?  What?

 

“But what?!  We’ll have so much fun, and we can still go to Punta Cana, and, oh, wait, is this about your cat?  Well, I suppose it would be okay if you brought your cat, Makkachin is a good boy and he wouldn’t bother her, and she can have an entire guest room all to herself and wouldn’t she just  _ love _ that?  I’ll even buy a cat tree just for her and a bed all bedazzled with Swarovski crystals, because cats like fancy shit like that, right?  But wait, I don’t remember, is she declawed? If she’s not you have to let me know so I can do something about the furniture, because, well, as I’m sure you know, cat’s fucking  _ destroy _ furniture, and you really can’t train them not to do it, from what little I know about cats, because, frankly, they make me sort of sneeze, but it’s okay! Your cat is really the okayest of the okay cats, you know?  But I just had my couch reupholstered, and-”

 

_ “Victor!” _

 

“What?”

 

“Shut. Up.”

 

“But I said you can bring your caaaa~~~tttt!”

 

“God damn it this is not about MY CAT, and shut the fuck up for half a fucking second!  This is why I told you  _ not _ to drunk-Skype me for Christ’s sake!  You’re such a Train. Wreck! How in the hell are  _ you _ a goddamn five-time World Fucking Champion?!  Just Get. Your. Shit. Together!”

 

Victor felt his eyes widen and begin to sting at the edges.  No. Nonononono _ no _ !  “Chris, I-”

 

“No, Victor.  Not only ‘no’, but ‘fuck no’.  I am not coming to Russia for an extended fucking play-date.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Oh shit.  His eyes were stinging and his stomach hurt and he felt like he was going to throw up and:  Fuck It. He reached for a tissue and blew out a shit-ton of snot and didn’t even say “Excuse me”. 

 

Another sigh; Victor couldn’t even look at the screen of his laptop anymore; instead, he studied the paw Makkachin raised to meet his hand like it had all the answers to the goddamn universe.  

 

“Now, listen to me, cheri,” his friend said gently,  “I’m not entirely opposed to joining you on vacation somewhere, okay?  I’m not even opposed to coming for a  _ brief _ visit to St. Petersburg, even though Russia kind of sucks, okay?” 

 

He couldn’t help the little chuckle that escaped in spite of himself.  Yeah. Russia did sort of suck for people like them. He knew that.

 

“But I’m not going to pretend that it’s me you want with you doing all of the things that were obviously running through your flakey-ass brain that probably involved you smothering me with hugs and kisses, and making me drink too much, and spend too much money on designer shit,  and go out for runs with your precious poodle, and cuddling, and more cuddling, and cheating on our diets...I can’t.”

 

Shit.  Chris really,  _ really _ knew him well.  So what the hell was the problem?  Was he really that  _ undesirable _ ?!  And worse, was he really that  _ transparent? _ !  When did he lose the Victor Nikiforov Mystique with Chris?  He supposed it happened gradually over the ten-plus years of their friendship.  Shit. “But there would be making out,” he said quietly, “And sex. There could be sex. Really great sex where I can scream your name in my  _ not ugly _ French.” 

 

“Cheri-”

 

“And bath bombs,” he interrupted shakily,  “You forgot about the bath bombs. I have a fuck-ton of them.  I have a problem.”

 

Chris exhaled again.  “You know, the part of me that is your best friend who hates to see you like this wants to say ‘yes’ and just drop my shit and take off on the next flight to sucky Russia.  Part of me  _ definitely _ wants you to scream my name in your  _ ugly _ French.  I think you know which part.”

 

He felt his lips curl into a little smile, and Makkachin whimpered, but didn’t mind the tears falling into his fur for the umpteenth-millionth-time in their lives together, and Chris didn’t tease him about it, and he didn’t comment about it, even if Victor acutely knew his friend could see them falling, falling…

 

“But that’s not really what you want, is it?  I’m not who you want right now. Am I?”

 

God.  Why did Chris always have to be right at the  _ worst  _ of times?

 

“N-no…”

 

Another heavy exhalation came through the laptop speaker, along with the sound of bedclothes rustling and the noise of the phone being propped back up on the nightstand.  “So it wouldn’t solve anything, my being there. It wouldn’t make it better, no matter how much I kissed you, and, believe me, it is taking every ounce of magnetism from within my  _ slightly _ skewed moral-compass to deny you that, to deny you  _ anything _ .   _ Believe me _ .”

 

“What should I do…?”

 

“I don’t know.  Honestly, I don’t.”

 

“Yeah.  I...I’m sorry.  I-”

 

“Don’t be sorry, okay?  But, do me a favor, and get yourself ready for bed, and keep the call open so I know you won’t pass out in your living room on the floor or on your reupholstered couch, which, incidentally, you spent all that money only to get it re-done in the same stupid color?”

 

“Yeah...I like it…,” he said, wiping his eyes and patting Makkachin on his head which the dog dutifully accepted as The Signal that it was okay to go for his last drink of water before curling up in his dog bed.  He knew what Chris was trying to do. And, God, did he need this. He sniffed. “What’s wrong with it, Asshole?” he asked fake-grumpily as he carried the laptop into his bedroom and into the en-suite so he could complete his bedtime regimen.    

 

“What you mean is, what the fuck is wrong with  _ you _ , Bitch?  There’s nothing but fucking gray and white and silver in that shitty Russian apartment of yours in Shitty Russia.  You need more cheetah prints in your life; shame on Little Yuri for not providing it for you.”

 

Thank you, Chris.  He needed this. This was fine for tonight.  This was right. He took a calming breath. “Oh God, that boy’s fashion crimes are so, so severe…life sentence!”

 

“And that little bitch thinks he’s ready for the Senior Division?  Whatever. Everyone knows zebra print is way more sassy than fucking cheetah print, and I am a cat lover and I’m okay with saying that.  I’m gonna troll the Internet for the best zebra print ottoman on the planet to make up for your fucking boring couch. It’s going to be the pièce de résistance in your shitty bland boring small living room.  You’re welcome.”

 

Victor chuckled as he shed his sweater and put a headband on to keep his hair away from his face.  “My apartment’s at  _ least _ 300 square feet larger than your condo, Dipshit.  And, I’m a fucking Size Queen according to that last article in that tabloid from a few months ago.  Remember that one? Size is very important to me. Apparently. So I definitely know that mine’s bigger than yours,” he added cheekily.  God, he was feeling a little better; less drunk, less upset, still a little raw about the edges, but better. 

 

“Oh yeah?  Remind me to confirm that with a tape measure...of course, I myself will need probably two tape measures…”

 

“Fuck you, Bitch.”

 

“Hmm! Oh!  You were talking about your  _ apartment _ !  How silly of me; yes yes,you do have that extra room, don’t you.  Is that where you keep your rig? I’ve never seen your guest room...is there something naughty in there?”

 

Victor laughed and almost put a finger full of cleanser in his eye.  “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

 

“I do recall that article though, it was a good one.  And really not too far from the truth you little slut.   Remind me to get you the largest dildo on the planet for your next birthday.  I wonder if I can get one with a glitter motif? You probably shit glitter, right?”

 

“Shut up!  That article couldn’t be further from the truth!  I don’t like hairy huge guys who don’t fucking groom themselves.  Please. If they’re not willing to put in the effort to get a Brazilian, then they are not touching this heavenly body,” he retorted as he rinsed the cleanser and fumbled around the bathroom counter for his toner.

 

“And, cheri, you need to move that laptop.  All I see is your fucking elbow, which, is, you know, great and all, very sexy, but I want to see those abs instead, you damn tease.”

 

Victor laughed a little again.  “My hands are wet. I can’t move it right this second.”

 

“Tease.”

 

The tears were still gathered, and they still fell into his fingertips as he worked the toner into his skin.  But Chris was with him. He felt less alone, and he wouldn’t pass out on the living room floor. He dried his face and hands and moved the laptop.  “Is that better?” With this angle, Chris should have a nice view of him and of his reflection, shirtless, with very low-sitting yoga pants.  

 

“Much.  God, you are a pretty one, Nikiforov.”

 

“Chris-”

 

“Now, time for you to go to sleep.  Chop chop! Go to bed!”

 

“I’m going, I’m going~~~!” he whined.

 

“Hurry the fuck up!  Pretend there’s a sale at Prada and hustle, Bitch!”

 

Victor laughed again, and pulled back the duvet and set the laptop down on the mattress as he covered himself.  “Ok. I’m ready for sleep.”

 

“Okay.  Good night, Victor.”

 

“Good night...merci, Chris…”

 

He closed the call and fell asleep almost instantly that night, and he woke up feeling less like a pathetic waste of space.  He continued to practice the new programs for the next season, and everything was going reasonably great again. 

 

Until it wasn’t.

 

Agape.  Eros.

 

He couldn’t decide which one was better.

 

He’d do the step sequence from Eros, and he’d launch the triple axel from the spread eagle, and then he’d stop.  And then he’d do the intimate choreographic sequence from Agape, encircling his hands around his body in the backward glide, and then he’d stop.

 

Both reminded him of Yuuri too much.

 

Fuck, who was he kidding?  He’d fucking  _ based them  _ on Yuuri.

 

Who never called him.  Who never reached out. Who hadn’t appeared in any social media alerts since forever.

 

Frustrated, he called it a day and went home, took Makkachin for a walk, and then picked at some dinner before settling in with a book upon his, thank-you-very-much,  _ beautifully re-upholstered _ couch. 

 

Makkachin hopped up and entangled himself with his legs and settled in for a snooze, gentle flops of tail punctuating the quiet with soft thumps to pair with the sound of each turned page.

 

He was getting to a good part in the novel when his phone started pinging away.  Pingpingping. Buzzbuzzbuzz. Ding. Buzzping. Pingpingpingpingping.

 

What the  _ actual fuck? _

 

He marked his place in the book and picked up his device which was blowing up like fireworks from all of his Yuuri notifications.  What?! All this shit was in Japanese! What the hell was going on? What happened? Was he okay? Did he make an announcement that Victor couldn’t read?

 

And then, a text from Chris.  He opened it: “Drop whatever you are doing and sit the fuck down.  You Need To Watch This. NOW!!!!” The message had a link to a Japanese YouTube channel.  

 

He clicked.  And Clicked again to translate.

 

“[Katsuki Yuuri] Tried to Skate Victor’s FS Program [Stay Close To Me]”

 

What?!

 

_ What?! _

 

Ping.  Another text from Chris:  “ARE YOU WATCHING IT YOU THIRSTY SLUT?!?!?!”

 

He quickly typed a reply:  “About to. What the fuck is this?  Is this a joke?” Send.

 

Ping.  “Call me as SOON as you have watched this.  It’s all over the fucking internet (°O°)!!”

 

He replied again with a quick “OK” and clicked the link again.

 

My God.  

 

It  _ was _ Yuuri.

 

Victor watched.   

 

And watched.

 

Oh God; the only sound on the video was the scrape of blades upon the ice of an empty rink, with the occasional “shhh!” from behind the camera by whoever was filming this.

 

And yet, Victor was spellbound.

 

He could hear the music.  He could  _ hear _ it as Yuuri Katsuki skated; every element was perfectly timed, every gesture beautifully executed, every emotion…

 

Exquisitely conveyed…

 

Sure, he tripled the quad flip, but he nailed the combination quad-toe-triple-flip.   _ He nailed it! _

 

Victor pressed replay.

 

Oh God...Yuuri’s steps, no, they were his _own_ steps, but, _oh_ _shit!,_ Yuuri’s execution was _better_ ; and his flying camel variant spin…

 

His searching expressions, the mirror of Victor’s own…

 

Yuuri was so Beautiful...

 

And Victor was  _ pissed _ .

 

_ Fucking pissed!   _

 

What the hell was this supposed to  _ mean  _ after  _ months _ of a shit-ton of  _ nothing?! _

 

One does not skate  _ Victor Nikiforov’ _ s program without calling said  _ Victor Nikiforov _ to ask first, right?   _ Right?! _

 

But then...a breath.  A thought. 

 

Oh God, maybe, just  _ maybe _ , Yuuri was reaching out to him through his skating, This Video, through the one thing that connected them when conversations had not, when his season ended too, too prematurely, and he might not have known what to say…when his confidence was probably shattered, and the swirling rumors of his impending retirement, and everything, and nothing, and everything else...

 

Hadn’t  _ Victor _ not known what to say after finding out Yuuri hadn’t placed at the Japanese Nationals?

 

And then a flutter Victor had been desperately trying to swallow down and push back and not  allow himself to feel since he went of the rails and broke all the rules with Mr. GQ on that stupid night…

 

It was his heart.

 

An ember.

 

Then a spark.

 

A  _ fire _ .

 

_ Be my coach, Bictoru~~!  Be My Coach! _

 

Again, Yuuri had taken his breath away, and, by some miracle that had to have been brought forth by God, it simultaneously breathed life into Victor’s gasping lungs, and brought energy to the blood in his veins, and hope and optimism to replace the darkest and most intrusive of his thoughts, and  _ color _ to the grayscale that was his loneliness…seeing Yuuri pour his heart and muscles and sweat and breath into Aria, into Stammi Vicino...it  _ called  _ to him.  

 

So this was Life.

 

Yuuri was reaching out, performing his program beautifully, with nothing but the sound of him dancing on the blades to the music within his body.

 

Stay Close to Me and Never Leave,....

 

What was the end of the sentence?   Could there be one more precious word that Yuuri was trying to say with his skating?    Could it be…

 

_ Vitya? _

 

Then a warmth, and,  _ oh _ , a  _ memory, _ a sensation of nerves tied to it, the press of Yuuri’s lips, the very last person with whom he’d been connected in that way through lips and tongue and taste and searching....  

 

Then  _ all _ of the memories,  _ all _ of the fleeting moments, all of the thoughts, and feelings, and of warm, firm flesh, and of sweet-tasting skin,  and joy and mirth, and anger and sadness, and  _ confusion _ , and longing….

 

And  _ wanting. _

 

And _ loving  _ Katsuki Yuuri of Japan _. _

 

So this was Love.

 

And it wasn’t perfect.  It wasn’t always going to be rainbows and puppies and ponies and kittens and unicorns and glitter.  It didn’t have to be a fairy tale. It didn’t.

 

But at least this was  _ real _ .  It had to be.  This clearly wasn’t staged, it wasn’t a stunt. 

 

This was... 

 

Yuuri.

 

Maybe Life and Love just didn’t happen in the way Victor had expected they would.  Maybe those two L words had to be  _ earned _ .  Through trust.  Work. Understanding one-another.  As a couple. A pair. 

 

And  _ both _ people had to meet each other halfway for it to have a chance at all.  

 

What a surprise.

 

He was about to replay the video again, but then his phone started ringing.  Chris. That’s right, he forgot. He was supposed to call Chris.

 

He swiped his finger to answer:  “I thought I told you to call me!”  Chris shouted through the phone without greeting.

 

“Chris!  He skated it so beautifully!  And with no music! And his steps, and his spins, and his  _ fucking jumps _ !  He can jump, Chris, he can!”

 

A small chuckle.  “He tripled the flip, though.”

 

“Yeah, whatever, but DID YOU SEE THE STEPS?!”  Now Victor was shouting, and thought mania had set in, and when did Yuuri learn the program?  With no one to guide him, with no one watching, he had learned such a high-level program By.  _ Himself?! _

 

“His steps were sort of better than yours, cheri; no offense.”

 

“I know!  And, none taken, of course, because I KNOW!”

 

An exhalation.  “So. Now what are you going to do about this?  The last time he had your attention like this he was  _ Stripping _ and  _ Pole Dancing _ !”

 

“Yes.  Yes he was.  Oh God, that was so sexy, Chris...he’s so hot.  Those Thighs.”

 

“Right, right.  So, I’ll ask you again, because you’re not focused, and your little hamster wheel is spinning out of control, so I’ll say this slowly so that the next shiny thing you see won’t distract you:  What. Are. You. Going. To. DO?!”

 

Well, fuck.  

 

What  _ was _ he going to do?

 

He felt a smile grace his lips, he felt a weight lift from his shoulders, he could feel Makkachin thumping his tail more excitedly in response to the change in his energy.

 

“I’ll let you know when i figure it out.”

 

And, he’d already figured it out.  But where was the surprise in telling Chris that?

 

“Oh, I’m sure you will.”

 

“Gotta go, Chris, and merci, and thank you, and spasibo, for sending me this link; I could  _ kiss _ you!  You’re the best, you’re my  _ bestie _ , you’re  _ amazing _ ~~~! You’re-”

 

“ _ Over it _ ,”  his friend interrupted.    “Bye, Victor. Talk soon.”

 

About a week later, Victor had single-handedly pissed off Yakov, the RSF, the Press, the Everybody, and now he was claiming his baggage and turning on his phone in an airport in a place called Fukuoka, Japan.

 

As soon as it it powered up, it started pinging and buzzing wildly with reactions toward that which he had just done.  Oh well. Surprise, Everybody!

 

And then a message from Chris:  

 

“Please tell me you did  _ not _ hop a plane to Japan to become a coach to a  _ stripper _ .”

 

Victor smiled, the real one, the one meant for Yuuri, for the new Life and Love he was about to get to know.

He typed his reply with a little laugh:  “Oops?????”

  
  


~fin

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, Readers,
> 
> Thank you so much for reading this silly thing to the end. It was a lot of fun to write, and my hope is that it was enjoyed. Thank you for all the continued support and love that so many of you gave to this fan fiction; I am humbled and grateful, and still in sort of disbelief of it, but Thank You.
> 
> I hope that you will visit me again in future stories for this really too-fun fandom.
> 
> Thank you!  
> Your Companion,   
> ~Ceile


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